


Home

by IwillbeReichenbach



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Broken Sherlock Holmes, Canon Compliant, Dark, Electricity, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Gen, Humiliation, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury, Major Character Injury, Mycroft To The Rescue, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pain, Physical Abuse, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Serbia - Freeform, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock-centric, The Empty Hearse, Torture, Violence, Waterboarding, also of a stapler, misuse of electricity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-07-25 13:05:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 25,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16198127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IwillbeReichenbach/pseuds/IwillbeReichenbach
Summary: So close to returning home, I am captured and held for questioning at a military base in Serbia.  This was to be my last task before returning to Baker Street, to my life, to my friends.  Even this close to the end I cannot afford for them find out who I really am or why I am here.  It will be a test of endurance.AKA my version of the events that occur in Serbia and shortly thereafter. Sherlock is in for a rough time.  I have tried my best to keep it canon compliant.A huge shout out to the extraordinary Sandrina, without you this would never have seen the light of day.  Your sensitive, gentle and kind guidance is just what I needed.  Having said that I take full responsibility for all mistakes.This story is complete and ready to rock.  I'll update it weekly or just infrequently enough to keep you hanging.





	1. Chapter 1

To the best of my knowledge the last remaining direct link to Moriarty’s network currently resides here. Or at least he had when I had climbed over the fence. 

I have been within the compound for hours. I am bone-cold, waiting in the shadows of the main generator, watching. My target will emerge eventually. Once he is suitably drunk. This is their ritual. There is precious little to do out here other than drink. 

I have scaled the fence numerous times to get close enough to watch, to know their routines. Now that I am satisfied that I can predict where he will be. I have chosen tonight to creep in as close as I can and wait for the men to finish drinking their Rakia and emerge into the night. 

It’s practically a sure thing, I know I can take down one drunk man. Even a few of them should be no trouble. They always leave alone or in dribs and drabs. My target is Baron Maupertuis. He is not a real Baron, no that would be to grand for him, his name is Baron, and I thought my parents were weirdos when it came time to name their kids. 

The plan is to wait until he appears, follow him until he is far enough away from the bar to not be heard and eliminate him and any of the idiots who accompany him. If they are his friends, chances are they are high they are also appalling people. 

I realise the flaw in my plan when a young man appears staggering down the steps. I have been listening to them through the high window, goading him into drinking more. Telling him it would make a man out of him. 

He stumbles in my direction clearly needing some fresh air and a vomit. There is no here for me to hide. He sees me the instant he straightens up. He stares straight at me, for a moment he doesn’t know what to do. Then he turns and hurries up the stairs. I should have killed the kid, but he is young, and I can’t handle any more innocent collateral. 

I run. I have no chance, there is no way I can face them all. They are well equipped, it is a military base after all. Even if it is mostly a front for the central line of a drug smuggling operation. I know they have guns, and dogs and helicopters, after all, they have a lucrative operation to protect and they are going to be right pissy about someone wanting to shut it down. 

Running doesn’t work. I had known it was a long shot from the beginning. I am exhausted from weeks of living rough in bitter conditions. Even if I was fresh, it probably wouldn’t have helped. I make it back over the fence and I cross the river, taking a moment to throw my knife and the length of piano cable downstream, hoping that it will put the dogs off my trail. 

It doesn’t. They surround me with their high-powered weapons. Two options. Surrender or be killed. I expect that both will end in death. In that moment I don’t really care. I slump to my knees, too tired to stand. They take it as surrender.

I am marched stumbling, at gun point, down a series of corridors. It is lower here than it was at the main entrance. There is a high window and a second entrance at the back of the room. They tie me to a chair. Their knots are useless, all I will need is a few moments alone to untie them. It is warmer than outside, but I would not say it is warm here. This place is a freezing heap of excrement, the whole rambling compound it full of rotting cold war era buildings.

Three men stay in the room, to question me. I ignore them, pretending I don’t understand them, playing dumb. I am ruffed up but not really hurt. To my surprise they leave me in my heavy jacket. Clearly, they don’t really know what to do with me. 

Their first mistake is to leave me alone. It takes me no time at all to escape from the chair. I listen at the door I had entered through, there are voices outside, three maybe four men. Without any weapons I don’t stand a chance. I try my luck with the rear entrance. I know it is a risk. I don’t know where it leads to. 

I make it part of the way up the steps at the back of the room only to be thrown back down the steps and retied to the chair by the guys that are guarding that entrance. One of them points a gun at my face while they bolt the chains to the walls. 

By morning the chair is sitting in the corner of the room and I am standing between the chains. The chains hold my arms at full length, too high for me to sit down or even kneel, too low to stand upright, either way my hair hangs in my face. I know that I was chained up like this because they are woefully unequipped to hold a prisoner. Even so they are capable men, they just have no cells. They just did not expect to capture anyone out here, in the middle of nowhere. That is one of the reasons the location works, its isolation. 

I had known it was a risk coming out here. What choice did I have though? I needed to finish this. I need to go home. Usually risks pay off kindly, this time however I have a feeling that I have made a serious mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up it is going to be a bumpy ride!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I meet the first of my torturers. The reality of my situation starts to set in.

A tall man enters the room later in the morning, he has come straight from breakfast, I can still smell it on him. Bread, eggs, salami. He sets a heavy lamp on a small table opposite me, plugs it into an ancient looking wall socket and points it in my direction. I squint into the light.

“We know you broke in here, we know you were planning something. Save yourself some trouble. Tell me why?” He says threateningly in his native tongue. He speaks slowly so I can pick up most of his meaning, it has taken me weeks to learn the language, but I am still rusty. 

I have no intention of telling him what he wants to know. I blink into the light, it is incredibly bright in the dim room.

“Tell me!” He demands more loudly. “Tell me or we will kill you.”

I speak more slowly than is my usual pattern, to give myself time to mentally translate from English. I try to keep my voice neutral, without a noticeable accent to conceal as much as I can about my identity. It is vital that they do not find out who I am. 

“If you do succeed in killing me, you will have accomplished where many others have failed. Plus, you say ‘we’ not ‘I’ so, you have no personal intention of being the one who does the killing, at least not today anyway. I don’t think I’ll be telling you much of…” 

I am cut off by a solid punch to my solar plexus.

“…much of anything.” I continue unfazed but breathless. “In fact, I think you will find…”

I am cut off again, this time with several blows. They drive the air from my lungs. I try to hide a smirk; this guy is proving to be very easy to wind up. 

I collect small facts about him as he works. Right handed 6’3, early thirties, not married, or in a significant relationship, but was until recently. That might come in handy later, people do so hate being jeered about their singularity, especially if they have grown accustomed to being seen as part of a couple. Untidy by nature but military life has curbed his natural instincts, not that I can be too critical there. Good at following orders because he lacks initiative, not particularly high ranking but trusted, they did send him in here alone after all. 

By the time he is done I’m pretty sure I have a cracked rib, and I am absolutely sure that there are not, as yet, any instructions to kill me. 

I hear a young voice call out from outside the door.

“Your time is up Rasha, you lose the bet.” I recognise the voice. It must be the boy, the one who spotted me outside the bar. I groan when I realise that they must have put him on guard duty. Poor kid is going to get an education over the next few days.

The man I now know as Rasha leans in close to me as he tells me that I will pay for what I have done. Then he leaves the room. As if I had known about his stupid bet. If I had I wouldn’t have given a toot anyway. He was more of an idiot than I thought, if he had made a bet that he could get any information out of me in a mere half hour. 

The rest of the day is boring and uncomfortable. Highlighted only by an intense need to urinate and the delivery of a table that is put in the corner behind me and slightly to my left. Three heavy canvas bags are also carried in and deposited on the table. What they contain is a mystery, but it sounds like it is mostly metallic items. 

Hours dwindle by. It must be evening by the time I can’t hold my bladder any longer. I try calling out to get someone’s attention. I know it is futile, but it passes the time while I gain the nerve to piss down my leg. No one comes. Eventually I seek relief and let the hot stream run down my leg. If it wasn’t so undignified, it would be bliss. I resolve not to hold on for so long next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long night, followed by another tedious day.

I alternate between bending at the waist to take the pressure off my legs and crouching to relieve my aching back. I shift from one foot to the other in an attempt to quell the cramps in my legs and to rest my feet. 

To pass the time I run thought the muscles that are working to keep me upright. I start with the dorsal muscles: soleus, gastrocnemius, biceps femoris, semitendinosus, semimembranosus, gracilise, vastus lateralis, gluteus maximus, thoracolumbar facia, latissimus dorsi, hmm they are particularly uncomfortable right now, trapezius…

My thoughts are interrupted by the shuffle of feet behind me. No one, so far, has approached from that direction. I look up from the floor as he ducks under the chain, the light is so bright that all I take in are his warn shoes, some kind of soft leather loafer. Unsuited to rough terrain or work, unlike the shoes of the others here. 

He sits in the chair that is beside the light. I can’t make out much about him. I do however smell him. I am not currently in a position where I should judge someone by their odour, it has been many days since my last shower, I smell of dirt and sweat and fear but this guy stinks. He smells of poor dental hygiene. Not the kind of morning breath you have if you have gone out on the town and got home too drunk to take care of things. More like years of neglect on top of a diet that consists solely of rotten flesh. Its not his breath that bothers me really. It is something about his countenance that I find particularly disturbing. His silence, his ambling gait, the way he stares.

He just sits there, hour after hour. It is colder now, it must be late at night or early morning and still he just sits and stares at me, hardly moving. I try to let my mind wonder, to distract myself with little problems or ponderings, but my mind is continually dragged back to the man in the chair. 

I am trying to concentrate on counting the cracks in the floor when he shuffles past me, ducking back under the chain and climbing the stairs. He never spoke a word. 

Bored and uncomfortable I wait to see what today will hold. I have a blinding headache, a combination of the unrelenting light, dehydration and the pressure on my neck from holding this ridiculous position. I try to mentally practice the language. Improving my phrasing, syntax and pronunciation will help me to avoid identification. 

Hours later a large bald man enters, he has a nose that has been broken many times. He looks tough in the way that men do when killing others has become a normal part of their life. I can smell a faint whiff of a lady’s perfume that I don’t instantly recognise. Must be something locally available. I know all the London regulars and most of the obscure ones too. Must have a wife or a girlfriend. Wife, I see the glimmer of a ring as he passes. I tense as he goes to the table in the corner and picks something up. Despite twisting around I can not make out what he has chosen, too many shadows, too many sunspots in my vision. 

He does not speak. I am beginning to wonder if anyone around here says much. He just lays into my back with what feels, alternately, like a pair of metal rods and a stiff lash. I am glad for the scant protection that my jacket offers but within a few dozen blows my knees are buckling and I am crying out involuntarily to the pain. 

“What the fuck is that?” I gasp between blows. 

The man just grunts out a deep chuckle and dangles the bicycle chain in front of my face. I see a few drops of blood drip to the floor. 

“I’ll stop if you tell me why you are here.” He says.

“I got taken captive by a group of men with angry dogs and rifles. They put me here, maybe you should have a chat with them.” Already I am getting more proficient at the language. 

I don’t think he appreciates my logic. He swings the chain again and again.

“Where are you from?”

I can feel my weather proof jacket ripping, I doubt the layers beneath are faring any better.

“What is your name?”

I know that I won’t be able to take much more of this. Gasping for breath is made more difficult by the damage Rasha did with his fists the day before. 

“How did you find us?”

Within minutes my vision begins to blur, then whites out completely. 

\---------------------

I come to within moments, the man is wiping the chain with a dirty cloth. My full weight is on my wrists in the chains. I push myself up with a grunt.

“Arrr, you are back, good, I am not finished yet.” He says coldly. Then almost as an afterthought, “or you could tell me who you are?”

“No thanks”

“Good, I am enjoying this.” 

He then targets the back of my thighs with the chain. At least it gives my back a break. He must notice that I am taking it better because he quickly returns to flogging my back.

“Did someone tell you about us?”

I can feel my body reacting to the punishment, endorphins and adrenaline keep me conscious longer this time, but there is only so much they can do in the face of that much pain. 

\-------------------------

He is sitting in the chair when I look up. I must have been out for longer this time. He stands, the chain still in his grasp. 

“Shit” I mutter as I get to my feet. I need to give him something to get some reprieve. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. He steps around behind me and raises the chain.

“Wait,” I gasp as I feel a chunk of flesh rip from my shoulder blade, “there is an officer who is syphoning petrol form the generator, to fill his vehicle.” I mumble out a description of the man, I had seen at the generator twice while I had been watching the compound. “He has a scar on the back of his hand.”

He leaves to investigate it. He must have recognised the man from my description. It earns me some oily stew and a few sips of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not usually one for associating dates with emotions. I don't believe that a number on a calendar can hold power over your feelings but today I was reminded of a sad event that is attached to this date. Now, I can't help but take a moment to remember.
> 
> Five years ago today a great man was taken from this world. Not all that are lost return, treasure them while you can.


	4. Chapter 4

I know that the night is going to be a very long one. I am exhausted and in considerable pain. Every time I move the damage to my back feels like it splits and reopens. I can feel the wounds weeping, sticking my shirt to my skin. 

The stew does not sit well in my stomach, adding to my misery by making my guts lurch and roll. Nausea consumes me. I have not eaten in days and I will myself to keep it down. I will need the energy if I am to manage many more days like this one. I know that they are an inevitability of my future. 

It must be in the late of the night when the man comes again, whispering down the steps on soft shoes. I can smell him before I hear him. My nausea increases as he comes closer, vomit would smell better than he does, I think, as he passes running a finger along one of the rips in my jacket, I can feel the shredded fabric catch on his calloused digit. I shudder uncontrollably, it is more than the cold air seeping through my coat that does it. 

He again sits quietly through the night. I wonder at his purpose and his intentions as my eyelids grow heavy. It has been so long since I have slept, even by my standards. Oblivion would be nice right now. I begin to drift. 

A sharp sting on my cheek awakes me. He has slapped my face and returns to his seat. That, I think, is his purpose. Trying to stay awake becomes mine. Many times, throughout the night he stands, slaps my face and returns to his seat. Always wordless. 

By early morning my cheek feels hot and swollen and I am no longer having trouble staying awake. Well by my reckoning it is early, perhaps two or three o’clock, but I have few points of reference for time. The light shining in my eyes is far brighter than any of the natural winter light that tires to penetrate the grubby little window during the day time. Their schedule is random. It made it difficult to judge the time of day or night. 

My stomach has been cramping for hours. The food from yesterday has not agreed with me or they have laced it with something. My stomach twists and flips. After hours of holding on and despite my best efforts to put off the inevitable I shit in my pants, hot and wet, completely unable to hold on any longer. It shouldn’t bother me, I’d pissed down my leg often enough by now, but it does. 

It slowly cools against my thighs and eventually begins to dry. All the while the man just sits there and watches. Eventually he leaves as I notice a soft dull shadow on the floor, that must signal the first rays of light beginning to creep though the window behind me. 

Later, I am mocked for my weakness and eventually a group of nameless men strip me bare from the waist down and hose me off with an icy blast of water. My face heats with the indignity. They don’t bother to return my shoes. Even as I shiver, I am glad to be relatively clean of my own filth. It takes me an age to dry out.

Rasha comes in some time after I have stopped shivering. He circles me casually and lets out a low whistle. “Goran is a mean fucker, he did some nice work here.” He says as he passes behind me. “I’ll have to lift my game if I am to meet his standards.” 

He drops a couple of short hard jabs into my lower back. If I hadn’t already been certain that I would be pissing blood, I am deadly sure of it now. 

“Why did you come here, fool?”

“I hear you have nice Rakia, thought I’d drop by for your fine hospitality.”

He sweeps my feet out from under me and laughs gleefully as I bounce in the chains, the rough abrasions on my wrists opening into deep gouges. 

“Yes, I heard you sampled our cuisine, you might have enjoyed it more if it wasn’t from the dog’s allocation, but I guess you are in no position to be picky. You must have been very hungry to eat it though.” 

I ignore him.

“Again! Why are you here?” 

“You have simply stunning accommodations.” My sass earns me another round of blunt jabs. This one likes using his fists. 

“Why?”

“Well, the views are spectacular.” I say looking around the room. This time, I am sure I feel another rib give way. I am gasping for air by the time he steps back. 

It goes on like this until he is slick with sweat, despite the cold. I am unable to stand without the support of the chains. We are both out of breath. 

“See you tomorrow, we have a special treat for you.”


	5. Chapter 5

I am feeling stronger by nightfall, still desperately thirsty, incredibly tired, in a good deal of pain and feeling weak at the knees but I am not so cold as I was earlier, and I have managed to catch my breath a bit. 

Once the compound is completely quiet my night time visitor arrives again. I spend most of my time staring at the ground, too tired to lift my head. When I do look up, he is hard to make out in the shadows, but I can sense a slight rhythmic movement of his hand in his lap. I look down again, I have no interest in watching him rub one out. If that is indeed what he is up to. 

When I feel a sharp sting on my cheek I realise that I have fallen asleep. I hadn’t even felt myself drifting. I can smell the musky odour of spunk. He is a revolting individual. 

It gets harder to stay awake as the night goes on. More opened palm slaps come, they are more insulting than they are painful. 

By the first gloomy rays of light I am so tired that I am swaying, I can hardly keep my eyes open and my brain feels like mush, unable to hold onto a thought for more than a moment. I can’t remember how many days I have been here, as much as I try, the concepts of time and days continue to swim through my mind. 

I manage to catch a few moments sleep between the Nightman’s rule and the events of the day. It leaves me feeling ragged, my wrists suffering from supporting me. 

I am woken by the sounds of a rowdy group approaching the room. I hate to think what they have in store for me today, my resilience is waning. No one can withstand torture for an extended period of time. Prior experience tells me that not even I can hold out forever. Exhaustion, pain, cold, no small measure of fear wearing me down. 

Five of them come in, both Rasha and Goran, two men I don’t recognise and the young guy who spotted me outside the bar, he is carrying a large plastic bucket. Shit, no good can come of this. 

Three of them hoist me into the air, supporting my legs and back so that I must look like I’m in a kind of horizontal crucifixion. The pressure on my wrists and shoulders is intense. The wounds on my back scream and split open. I struggle momentarily but soon realise that it is futile and only causing more me discomfort. 

Goran throws a dirty rag over my face, I recognise it as the one he had wiped the bicycle chain with. He uses it, and a firm grasp of my hair to pull my head back. Panic rises within me, I will it to go away. 

I know what is coming, I did the moment I saw the bucket. I have been waterboarded previously, it is unpleasant, in the extreme. I cannot see with the cloth over my face but through the haze of panic I can hear someone instructing the kid, to tip the water over my face. I try to gulp air. Moments later it begins, the bucket is large, the stream slow. 

My lungs are burning by the time the rag is removed. I gasp for breath. 

“Who are you?” Goran asks.

“The Queen of England. Who are you?” 

“Again.” He says returning the cloth. 

I don’t know how they got the bucket refiled so quickly. Water pores over me again. It is as cold as ice and I try not to gasp. Water runs up my nose, I try to snort it out but just end up making it worse. My feet are hefted higher. 

“What is your name?”

“James Bond” I answer, I vaguely remember John watching a movie with a character with that name. My answer gains a chuckle from the men. They are enjoying this.

I have barely caught my breath before they go again. This time they don’t remove the rag between buckets of water. There must be more than one bucket. How did I not notice that? My concentration must be slipping. I was so tired when they came in, I don’t feel tired now. 

I have choked down some water before they give me a reprieve. I am spluttering, unable to cough it up properly with my head held back. 

Carbon dioxide drives breathing. Most idiots think that it is a lack of oxygen, but it is the need to remove carbon dioxide from your blood that makes you desperate to breathe. I am desperate to breathe.

As it goes on, me giving them ridiculous answers, them asking generic questions and wasting water, I begin to concoct a more convincing lie. I will need them to stop soon, but I cannot give away my reason for coming here, to do that would be giving away my identity and that would be a disaster. 

When I can’t take it a moment more I tell them that I was working for the Australian Special Forces and that I am here on an undercover mission to investigate their weaponry. It is mostly a lie, although I did do some consulting work for the them a couple of years ago, when they had experienced a little problem with their trainees going missing. 

The lie earns me a bowl of soup that I am allowed to eat with only one wrist attached to the wall. They allow me to sit down for a moment. I can barely use my arms effectively, they are so weak, and my hands shake. I spill a considerable amount of my meal onto my shabby stinking dirty jacket. I end up sipping the soup from the rim of the bowl rather than bother with the spoon. I am watched constantly, there is no opportunity for escape. The brief reprieve from standing only makes it worse when they attach the other cuff again. 

Later, just as with previous nights the Nightman still sits and watches but does not slap me awake as often. He allows me to sleep fitfully for slightly longer stretches, I don’t understand why. I hate not understanding.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a turn for the worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the tags and the warnings. They have been updated because it all just got dark, very dark.

They bring in an expert. They must know I have lied. Goran enters with a man who brings with him some cables, a stapler and a car battery. I instantly know I am in real trouble here. The stapler is clearly designed for large reams of paper. 

He says that if I don’t answer his questions he will apply his favourite ‘treatment’. He cuts off my shirt and coat with a serrated hunting knife, the clothing taking scabs and flesh with it as it is pulled away. I can smell the infection that is setting in on my back. 

My attention is quickly redirected to the man. He grabs one of the thin wire cables and the stapler. Flipping the stapler open, as if to refill it, he approaches me. I observe him cautiously. I am unsure exactly how he will proceed for a moment. 

Then as he holds the wire against my chest, not far below my left collar bone. I realise his intention. I go wide eyed as he places the stapler over the wire, flat and snug against my chest. I pull back sharply. The chains jangle. I can only move a few centimetres but it enough for the wire to drop to the ground. The man shakes his head.

“Very foolish.” He tuts. Then nods at Goran. 

They had clearly discussed this. Goran comes up behind me and holds me in place. Pulling me back as far as the chains will allow with his meaty forearm against my throat. The man with the stapler approaches again. This time I cannot escape as he holds the wire to my chest with the head of the stapler. I would take a deep breath if I could. This is going to hurt. 

The man stares me dead in the eyes, a hint of a smile on his lips. There is something familiar about him I think as he pauses, the thought is ripped away as he forces the staple into my skin. It takes a surprising amount of effort to make the staple release. He uses both hands. The pain is intense, not just the metal prongs sinking into my skin but the bruising force that is needed to make it happen. I gasp, as much out of horror as pain. He gives the wire a cruel tug, it holds fast, the staple deep in my flesh. Satisfied he reaches for another wire. 

“Shit” I mutter under my breath. Goran tightens his grip and tells me to shut up. I would say something snide about the irony of them wanting me to talk one minute and telling me to shut up the next. 

The next wire is placed in much the same position on the other side of my chest. I am more prepared for the pain this time. A small trickle of blood seeps down my chest. I’m struggling to breath against Groan’s choking hold. Passing out would be ok right now. It’s not the pain so much as the anticipation. I can see the car battery out of the corner of my eye. The staples will be the least of my worries soon. 

I lean back into Goran’s grasp, tilting my head back in an effort to get some air in. Therefore, I don’t see the placement of the next wire. It goes suddenly into the soft tissue just under my ribs in the centre of my chest. I can’t suppress a moan. 

“Ease up your grip a bit, don’t want him passing out on us.” He laughs as he pushes the next staple into my right bicep. I wonder how many he will do. I want to beg him to stop, but my pride prevents it. 

I almost wriggle away from the one pushed into my left arm but all it does is cause the staple to hang half way out. The man tuts at me again, as if I am a naughty child and pushes another staple in next to the first. 

I can feel all the staples separately, hot and angry like a sting. The man steps away and admires his work. Goran, sensing he is done releases me. I slump forward, hair falling over my face as I gasp for air. 

“A couple more I think, one in each palm.” The man says smiling. I grip my hands into fists automatically. “Prise his fingers open. Snap them if he fights you.”

I know then that this new man is enjoying this. Really enjoying it. Rasha and Goran always seem more than satisfied to carry out their tasks, they relish in the power they have over me and they find elation in the violence. As do many men that have grown up in a culture of honour such as is seen in many military settings. 

As much as I hate them for what they have done to me, I know that they are just following orders. I understand, academically at least, how far most sane and even kind people will go just because someone in a position of authority tells them to. I think of Milgram’s famous shock experiments, ironic that I should think of them now, but the participants were normal people who were prepared to hurt the innocent because they were told to. Never mind it was all an elaborate ruse, they thought they were hurting someone and continued to even when begged to stop, all because a man in a white lab coat told them to proceed. 

That is how I think of Rasha and Goran, they are just following orders. If I knew them in another time and place I would not think of them as evil. 

This other man finds a different kind of enjoyment. He finds inherent pleasure in the act of hurting people. A true sadist. 

Goran prises my fingers open, baring my palm. He threads his fingers though mine from the back of my hand as he pulls my wrist back. I watch as the staple sinks in. The skin is thicker here and the pain is bright and hot. I grit my teeth. Barely a moment passes before the left hand is given the same treatment. This time I turn my head away. I gasp loudly. 

The man winds the ends of long cables together and attaches them to a small transformer with a switch. This is already attached to the car battery. 

“Tell us how you got here?” He asks me. 

I notice Goran drifting back into the shadows. I shake my head knowing that I am condemning myself to serious pain. 

The man flicks the switch. Nothing but misery follows. The electrical shocks are the worst experience of my life. Inescapable, unrelenting searing agony. That is the first time that I cry. The first time that I scream. The first time I really feel true uncontained panic constricting my chest. I fight hard, hard enough that I feel something crack in my left wrist. 

He asks again. I shake my head, already feeling my resolve slipping away. 

Again, he flicks the switch and applies his treatment. Pain bursts though me. I wonder how much my heart can take before it gives out. 

I answer their questions. Sobbing I tell them that I crossed the border illegally near Zvonce. 

After more shocks I tell them that I had paid a farmer to give me a ride into town, where I had brought a cheap car to get myself the rest of the way. 

I hold out as long as I can but eventually, I tell them where they can find the car. I tell them where to find my camping spot. Mercifully I pass out before I am forced to tell them why I am here or who I am. It is a blessing. 

\------------------------

Awareness returns like a freight train. I’m on the floor. I try to cover my face with my left hand, to protect it from the harsh warm streams, but my arms won’t cooperate, the pain in my shoulder makes me gasp, a nonsensical move on my part. 

The ammonia stench of piss is now joined by the taste. Trying to spit and cough only allows more in. I turn my face to the floor, the grit scrapping at my cheek. I try to shuffle back away from the row of men, but the wall is behind my back. Every cut and abrasion stings as the hot liquid seeps in. They laugh at my feeble attempts to avoid the five streams of urine that patter down upon me. 

They throw around phrases that I am not familiar with, my brain, feeling slow and hazy, is too slow to keep up with their fast mocking tones. Their voices are too loud. My head hurts. 

How long was I out? It must be morning; the smell of the piss is too strong to be anything but the first of the day. 

I notice dimly that the wires are gone. Most of the staples remain. 

The horror of the previous day hits me like a sledgehammer I wonder what it is I have told them. Did I lie? Did I tell the truth? Have I condemned my friends to death? Condemned poor John who has put up with too much from me already? 

Surely not, I would die first, wouldn’t I? I don’t know anymore. God, I hope so. 

My heart hammers painfully in my chest. The rhythm of the stabbing pains feels all wrong. How much damage have the electrical shocks done? 

The group of men leave me, one, Rasha I think, dropping a heavy kick to my guts, causing me to curl around myself as best I can with all my muscles cramping. Cold, my tattered jacket gone, my shirt too. Everything hurts. My mind feels numb. As does my left hand. 

Worse is the sudden realisation that my trousers and pants are half way down my thighs. I know in an instant what had happened while I was unconscious. 

The Nightman. 

I realise then the meaning of the words the men were mocking me with; slut, whore, faggot. 

I reach for my pants to shuffle them back into position. My right wrist is still fastened to the wall, my left hand is of little use. I need to crawl close enough to where the chain is bolted to the wall, so that I can use both shaking hands. I can hardly support myself, the staples digging deeper into my palms as I try to crawl forward. 

The movement makes something warm seep down my leg. I try not to think about it. I try not to smell it. I definitely don’t look as I pull my trousers up. 

I lean against the wall, my back in agony. My arse too. I retch violently. There is nothing in my stomach to throw up. I swallow as best I can, only to be beaten a moment later. I lean to the side to vomit stomach acid and bile. I sit back trying to suppress the horror of what happened to me while I was unconscious.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is being posted for maryagrawatson who has been supporting this story with lots of nice comments.

The electrical shocks have left me unable to think clearly, not that I want to, there are some things that are best not to think about. I know that I won’t be able to forget, won’t be able to erase but that doesn’t mean I want to think about it. 

I have really lost all track of the time that has passed. How many days since the shocks? I am completely unsure. Could have been days? Weeks? I guess so. I don’t know.

All I know for sure is that every day I am questioned and beaten. And every night I am raped. The details were gone but the disgust lingers. Glimpses of memory fade in and out but the electric shocks have left me unable to grasp them for more than a moment. Like a dream that once awoken you can’t quite catch the content, but the feelings the dreams provoke still remain.  
\--------------------  
The boy helping me drink from a dirty mug. Somehow, I now know his name is Vlad. I don’t know how I know that.  
\--------------------  
The Nightman standing much too close behind me, with his hands down the front of my pants. Too gentle, so repulsive. He always turns the light off. It is the only time I am in darkness.  
\--------------------  
Rasha telling me they found the car and eventually my camping spot. There were no documents to my identity. I had been careful. He’s not happy about it.  
\--------------------  
A moment of clarity in which I miss home so much it hurts more than the beatings.  
\--------------------  
Goran wielding an electrical cord, while he questions me again. It had been cut from the appliance, I wish they had bothered to remove the plug too.  
\--------------------  
The Nightman taking his pleasures from me. I am powerless to fight back, even trying to step out of his grasp is impossible, he holds my hips tightly with his jagged fingernails as he drives into me.  
\--------------------  
The vague plan I concoct to gain Mycroft’s attention. It’s futile but it passes the time.  
\--------------------  
Coughing until I taste the copper tang of blood.  
\--------------------  
Rash punching me so hard that I go cross eyed. I tell him about the General who is changing their bar tabs in order to cover his own.  
\--------------------  
The man who comes to measure me up for a coffin. Apparently, they will bury me when I die here. He smells like apples and cinnamon and jasmine. He grumbles that I am hard to measure while I stoop, then grumbles that I am too tall. I tell him to just make a short coffin and chop my legs off before they chuck me in.  
\--------------------  
Occasional naps against the wall when I pass out for extended periods of time. It is the only time I am unchained.  
\--------------------  
Rasha and Goran making the boy join in the interrogations and mocking him for his light punches. I groan more than necessary to make up for his inherent weakness.  
\--------------------  
Realising that I am missing three toenails. Clearly ripped out. I have no idea how or when it happened.  
\--------------------  
The dread of the return of the man with the car battery. It had worked, I know it, they know it. It is only a matter of time before they get bored of toying with me and get serious again. I am scared. Really and properly scared, more than I have ever been in my life. So, I tell them little things when they hit me or when they shove the wet cloth over my face. Mostly little inductions I make about their colleagues or their lives, sometimes lies about myself.  
\--------------------  
Rasha and Goran alternating, morning and afternoon, or at least that’s what I think is the schedule. It has been days without sleep again, my body is flagging under the pressure to stay awake and to stay warm, now that I am without most of my clothing. I am pretty sure that is has gotten colder since I had arrived. I am sure that I have frost bite on my toes.  
\--------------------  
Eventually things become slightly more vivid. I try to rally a bit; to stand a bit straighter, to cop the abuse. A rattling cough has begun to plague me, it makes everything more difficult, exhausts me and makes my ribs ache and burn. I try to calculate how many days I have been here. Has it been eight days? At least, maybe ten? Or fifteen or twenty. Honestly, no matter how hard I try to concentrate I cannot figure it out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty graphic. Heed the tags. Skip it if you like, missing it shouldn't ruin the story for you.

Even in the state of confusion that the electric shocks have left me wrapped in, something akin to a bad concussion, I know what he wants. The Nightman. Not just the acts. They are obvious. But the fantasies he attaches. He wants me to be still, compliant. He hates it when I struggle. He wants to pretend it’s consensual. 

My ability to struggle is low, at best, with the chains simultaneously weighing me down and holding me up. I try to struggle, even though I know it will make it worse. I must know I fought as best I could. Futile as it is. I know I can’t stop him. I can’t stop any of it. I am utterly trapped. Even repeated attempts to brake my first metacarpal and trapezium have failed. I refuse to wonder if it will be over more quickly if I comply. 

I know that he has been thinking about it since the first night he sat and watched me. Only brave enough when I was unconscious the first time but since then he isn’t so fussy. I wonder if he volunteered for the job of watching over me each night or if he has been assigned to it. Someone would have known how he would torment me. Or maybe they just don’t want to deal with him any more than I do. A night assignment that gets him away from them. 

I induce that he is the grave digger, probably for the local town as well as the military compound. Some of the men have also jobs in the small farming town that is not far from here. I can tell he lives in the town, one of the few single men that bother to commute. Most stay in dormitories on site. I induce that he isn’t welcome to stay onsite anymore. Probably because of his off-putting countenance, possibly because he hit on the wrong guy. I induce that he is sexually inexperienced and that his orientation is exclusivly towards men. His attacks are far too gentle for it to only be a power play. I assume that he lacks opportunities then. Not surprising since homosexuality is still frowned upon in many parts of the world. The military undoubtedly being one of them. Plus, his revolting breath would chase off any suitable candidate too. If he wasn’t responsible for a large part of my daily misery I might feel sorry for him.

Dread builds as the faint hint of daylight fades. I know he will come again as he does every night. Another brutal session with Goran has left me weak and shocky. My breath hitches if I try to draw a deep breath. He used a set of knuckle dusters this time. Never satisfied with just his fists. I shift from foot to foot. I hate this. The waiting, the anticipation. I need rest. I hurt all over. Death would be salvation at this point. At this rate it will be slow to come. They are all careful to hurt me a good deal, but not to leave any serious injuries. I remember reading one of John’s books on a rainy afternoon. He had thrown it at me in frustration when I complained that there was nothing to do. It was about a group of Scottish kids that are addicted to heroin. I’m not sure why John thought it would be suitable reading for me, although at that stage I don’t think he truly believed that I was into that kind of thing. Or perhaps he wanted me to see their decent into drug induced misery, as if I hadn’t seen those things firsthand. It was an entertaining enough read with playful phonetically spelt accents. One of the characters describes death as being a process, not an event. That was exactly how it felt right now. A long slow bloody process. And I could really use a hit.  
\--------------------  
He came in shuffling from the doorway behind me, moving almost silently and ducking under the chain. As he passes I note the snow that is sticking to his shoes. No wonder I am shivering. It must be snowing heavily out.

He is a patient man, I assume he waits until it is late enough that there is no chance of anyone coming in. The wait is agony, knowing what will come, not wanting it to come but knowing that it will. I am in a state of constant anxiety, with a side serve of exhaustion. 

I don’t know how I manage to fall asleep, but I must have. He slaps me awake. This happens three times, on the third I taste blood. The inside of my cheek ripped open on my teeth. I force my eyes to stay open. Staring at the floor. The light too bright to look up and at any rate, my neck too weak to hold my head up. 

All too soon he clicks the light off. The room instantly shrouded in complete darkness. I try to blink away the sunspots left by the bright light. I can faintly hear him as he shuffles over to where I stand, never saying a word. Not once, but I doubt I would be able to hear him over the sound of the blood rushing in my ears.

“No. No. Please no. Please don’t touch me. I don’t want this. Not again.” I babble as he shuffles around behind me.

I have always thought people were being fanciful and foolish when they said something made their skin crawl but that’s exactly what happens as he runs his hands lightly over my stomach and chest. I feel my muscles rippling as they shrink away from his touch. He is too subdued. It doesn’t represent an assault, but it feels like one. Affects me more than anything else that they have done. If they questioned me now, if it would make this stop I’m not sure I could hold out.

He pulls me more upright from my slumped position, forcing me to bend my knees as the chains pull me down. His breath is in my ear as he runs his palm over my crotch. My reaction is automatic. I bend at the waist to avoid his touch. It just brings my arse into contact with his thighs. His erection against my lower back as he folds over me. He sighs. Still fondling me through my trousers, I can feel him smile against my cheek. I have played right into his little plan. This is his foreplay. 

Still gibbering at him to stop, I’m almost hyperventilating. I go quiet. I try to control my breathing as he undoes my trousers. His filthy dirt-stained hand reaching down inside my pants to stroke my limp penis. Despite his delicate, almost nervous touch I feel no pleasure. 

Disgust overwhelming me, I try to escape. Physically I can’t. I search for a way out. A hiding place amongst the relics of my old life that reside in my brain. I mentally run down the halls. Frantically, I go from door to door. They are all locked. Every single one. I check my pockets for the keys, but they are gone. I tug at every door handle. Pushing against them with my shoulder and running on to the next door, on and on until I am out of breath.

The finally, in desperation, I try the door to the attic. I try works. I have a moment of euphoria, I am free from this reality.

But the door just brings me back out into this room, where the Nightman is spitting into his palm and rubbing the foul mucus against my anus. I should probably be thankful for the lubricant, but I know how little it will help and all I can think about for a moment is the chance of infection. Least of my worries. 

  

He kisses me with wet lips on the side of my mouth. I gag. Then gasp as he breaches me with his finger. One? Two? I have no idea. All I know is the unwelcome intrusion feels far too large. His mouth still wet against my face. His body curled over mine. The rough fabric of his jacket scrapping against my wounded back. 

There is no escape from his touch. Pain breaks through the fog of fear and helplessness. I try to thrash my way out of his grasp, kicking at him with my bare feet, still tangled in my trousers. I am ineffective, and his hand follows me. Still fucking into me, stretching me painfully. I will myself to relax but my muscles won’t listen. 

He takes his time despite my desperate attempts to get free. I can sense his growing frustration. His left hand fists my flaccid penis roughly, effectively anchoring me in place lest I wish to rip it off. Then the pressure in my arse is gone for a moment before it returns with greater intensity. Greater pain. I am sure something will tear. I am out of breath to the point of feeling faint. My legs no longer capable of supporting me. I slump as my vision blurs and whites, a strange sensation in the complete darkness. I pray for oblivion. It doesn’t come. All I get is a coughing fit and another finger shoved into me. Now I am wishing he would spit onto his hand again. Anything to reduce the agonising friction.

Then he is gone. I am panting and coughing too hard to hear where he is. My chest hurts. The strain on the broken ribs obvious now that the tearing pain from my anus is momentarily reduced. I know he will be on me any second. I listen for the sound of a zipper. Blinking in the inky blackness. I turn my head to try to catch a glimpse of him. I can’t see anything. Then his mouth is on mine. Soggy and hungry and passionate. All tongue and teeth. I’d turn away if his tight grip on my hair would allow it. I want to vomit. When he finally pulls away I spit repeatedly on the ground, gagging but not able to throw up. I nearly miss the sound of the zip. It is the only warning I get before he thrusts into me. Slowly but with determination. Moaning with built up pleasure. 

It is always dark, I have never seen his penis, but it feels like it is made of iron and spiked with barbs. It feels long too. I’m sure it’s actually not but it seems to be an eternity before I feel the brush of pubic hair against my arse crack.

This has occured repeatedly, but I still cannot believe, in this moment, that it is happening. How did this become my reality? How was I stupid enough to get myself into this situation? 

The pain is ridiculous as he thrusts in and out. It feels like I am being split open. I am beyond struggling. His arms around my chest and hips are the only thing that keeps me on my feet. The pounding on my prostate causes my traitorous dick to get partially hard. There is no pleasure. Just pressure and pain and shame. The slapping sound of skin on skin and his soft grunting are the soundtrack to my rape.

Finally, he loses rhythm and then stills with a deep sigh. His chest heaving in time with my own. His breath huffing against my ear. He pulls out his shrinking penis, wrenching a wet fart noise from my body along with a dribble of semen and probably shit that runs down my thighs and my balls. I’m instantly soft again now that the pressure is gone.

He roughly pulls my pants and trousers back up and fastens them. Then goes back to his chair and turns the blinding light back on. I am shaking uncontrollably, fear, exhaustion and cold plague me. I collapse against the chains, my knees nearly touching the floor. I stink of ejaculate and sweat and shit and blood. I wonder where I am bleeding from. I wonder how much damage he has done.

He sleeps a while, I can hear the change in his breathing and if I lift my head, an effort that is nearly beyond me, I can almost make out his silhouette leaning back against the wall. I guess he must feel satisfied. 

I too sleep but fitfully, unable to find a position that isn’t painful. The very act of nodding off reminds me of his sharp slaps, it’s enough to rouse me from my chase for rest. The only time I get to sleep, and I can’t. I don’t have much left to give. I can give them a few more days before I really break, probably. Maybe.


	9. Chapter 9

What is it like to be really and truly broken? Is it far away? Doubtful. Can I see it from here? How much more pain can I take? A bit more, I guess. This is worse than the last time I had been captured, tortured for information, probably because time had dulled that experience. Years can do that to a memory. 

I shift from one foot to the other, trying to rest my legs, my back, my hips. Stress positions work, they work because they hurt. My wrists are rubbed completely raw, my feet are bleeding, all my joints ache. I didn’t even know it was possible to feel all the individual joints in your spine. 

I expect someone to come in soon. Could I take it? I’d have to. I had already screamed and cried and begged. They were not the signs of breaking. Nor were the pieces of information I gave them. They were a necessity. If you don’t prove useful, you die. That was one of the first lessons they gave you in training. Even after all these years, it’s not something you forget. If you get captured, you will have to tell them something, make sure it was enough to not die, but not so much that your get someone else killed. What they seem hellbent on finding out is why I had broken in here. Not that it had taken much effort, beyond finding the location and conquering the cold and the damp. Their security is woefully lacking. 

I start to doze off, quickly reminded that it is a poor idea, the cuffs bite into my wrists as I stagger. I haven’t slept in days. Every time I doze off the cuffs cut into my wrists, and if the Nightman catches me, he slaps me, hard against my cheek. It doesn’t happen as often now, the pain in my wrists is usually enough to wake me or I jolt awake automatically as soon as I start to drift. And I don’t dare let my guard down when he is around, not that it has helped me. I tell myself not to think about it!

The question they keep haunting me with; ‘Why did you break in here?’ The real answer; to kill the man who was responsible for Clair’s death. Also, any chance to shut down another aspect of the web is favourable, but what he did to Clair is completely unforgivable. I try not to think to much about it right now. One type of pain at a time is more than enough. The physical leaving no room for the emotional right now. I promise myself that I will honour her memory at a more appropriate time. Her story deserves to be told, remembered and thought about, but right now and right here is not the place. Now is not the time. If I get out of here. If I find a way to eliminate Baron. Then. Then it might be the time for reminiscing. 

Right now, I have more immediate issues. I hear the whisper of a footstep behind me, I barely have a moment to brace for the first blow. It causes me to stumble. Shoulders screaming, I groan as I get my feet beneath me again. This one likes to use his fists.

Was I regretting the choice now? Yeah, yeah, a bit. I had been cocky, had expected to get in and get out, with a small assassination in between. The answer I will give him: silence, if I can take the beating. When I cannot, my only plan is to feed them careful inductions about the men in the compound. It distracts them, they usually leave me alone for a while, especially if I can give them something incriminating on a fellow officer. 

“Hello Rasha” I say though gritted teeth, managing to keep my voice fairly even. The language coming easier now that I have had some practice.

“Are you going to tell me your name today?” Rasha asked. This has become our routine.

“Not today.”

“Shame, I have a nice glass of water here for you, I’ll let you have it. If you cooperate.” 

I am dehydrated. I consider it. Water is a serious temptation. That is what my life has become, desperation for things I had once considered ordinary, boring. I can’t tell them my real name though, that would mean death for John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade. 

I could lie outright, or I could use one of the alias’ I had adopted recently. I consider telling Rasha that I am Owen Jeffreys. I knew word would get back to the man I had come here for. 

If I could just get my damn thumb to break, I could get out of one cuff, I might have a chance at killing that animal. A small chance, probably no worth the risk. A new name. 

“Come on fool, you will die here, what does it matter if we know your name.”

“Zak, Zakary Mills.” I blurt out. What a stupid name, I would probably die here being known a Zak. Hell, I should have thought about it more. Exhaustion and pain are making me slow and sloppy.

“Zak, what a stupid name.” Rasha sneers, as if reading my thoughts. “Here, drink up.” He steps up close behind and grips my hair, reefing my head upright, leaning over the chain so he could bring the cup to my lips. I hate it when they grab my hair, I have always had a sensitive scalp, it feels as if every hair follicle is being ripped from the roots. The cup bumps roughly into my split lips, but I drink like a perishing man in a desert. After three gulps I realise the deception. It burns my throat, causing me to gasp and choke. My ribs protest as I cough and gasp. 

“What? Don’t you like it?” Rasha asks innocently. “If I were you I would want to get a little drunk. Especially with what is coming.” 

After a pause he presses the cup back to my lips. Knowing it is a bad idea, I drink anyway. I could use the calories and the warmth, I justify to myself, and the numbness. I am more careful this time. It still burns but I am prepared for it. I have never been much of a drinker, preferring something faster acting and mostly favouring uppers, but this would do. It is all that is on offer. 

“Now, tell me why you came here?”

This again, weren’t they bored yet? I stay silent, concentrating on the way my stomach lurches in protest to the alcohol. The first blow comes down on my scapula, the second on my hip. Not particularly hard, the chains rattle, I stay silent. 

“Why?”

Rasha sweeps my feet out from under me in one swift kick. My shoulders take the full brunt of the fall, feeling like they would rip from their sockets. Rasha laughs as I scramble to get to my feet, it takes me two feeble tries. 

He ducks under the chain and stands proudly in front of me. I stare at his shoes until he loops his left arm under my right. He supports my weight as he drives his fist into my abdomen, repeatedly. Each blow tearing a strangled gasp from me. I try not to vocalise, but I can’t help it.

“Why?”

I know trying to tough it out is the wrong plan, no one can withstand prolonged torture. I have limited options for escape. I know it will be worse for me in the long run, they will just enjoy breaking me down even more if I resist. Still, I resist every moment I can because I must know that I have tried. They can only break down my pride if I let them. 

“I was looking for Santa Claus.” I grunt out, sick to my stomach that I appreciate the support that Rasha is giving me. Rasha chuckles for a moment.

“Too far south, you silly boy.” 

I try to check out as the beating continues, Rasha doesn’t ask me anymore questions. This happens sometimes when one of the captors becomes more interested in the abuse than the interrogation.


	10. Chapter 10

It is the nausea that brings me back to myself, I am alone again, well as alone as I ever get in here. I have been blacking out often since they gave me the electric shocks. It seems they have disrupted something in my system. 

I roll my neck to try to reduce the strain, my head having been slumped forward for too long. I’m not sure how long ago Rasha left, had I passed out, or slept? They don’t let me sleep, it must have been the former, I think vaguely. Yes, the vodka, that explains the slow thinking and the nausea. A tremor runs through me, the cold is relentless. I always feel it worse after a beating 

I should feel some relief when they leave me be for a little while. I am still guarded, no doubt but at least I am not being harassed. I just feel sick and bored and cold and tired. My mind palace is failing to provide any suitable distraction. My body too uncomfortable to release my mind. I wonder again at how long I have been here, I hate that a lack of focus keeps me from figuring it out. If I just concentrate hard enough I should be able to figure it out. I let time drift by as I try to calculate the days, it is becoming an obsession. It is the thing that consumes me. There are just not enough time markers to focus on, the days are too similar to each other, the nights too. I can’t stay alert to the passage of time. I lost too many days in the muddle of my mind after the shocks. 

“I’ve got a guest for you Zak.” Goran’s voice startles me out of my thoughts. Having no better idea on a timeline now than when I began my musings. Not knowing irritates me. Eats at me. Makes my teeth itch with the frustration. Why can’t I just work it out? Think!

“What a treat.” I say sarcastically. My guts clench in fear, I feel my pulse rate rise, can hear it pounding in my ears. 

Goran drops a heavy car battery close to my feet. Right in my line of sight. I feel panic rising as I recoil as far as the chains allow. A minute ago, I had felt as if I would fall to the ground if they removed the chains, now panic makes me feel like I could run all the way to England. 

“No, no, no, no, please not that.” I babble “Anything but that, please no.”

“Then tell me why you broke in here?”

I just shake my head. I hear someone coming down the steps in front of me. He approaches, the man I have mentally named Zap. I will myself to breath more slowly, my chest too tight from sickness and damage and fear. I closed my eyes and wish I was somewhere else. Anywhere but here. 

Zap winds the electrical wires around my fingertips. Staples the wires to my body. Again, I am struck by a feeling of familiarity. I have seen him somewhere before. 

I brace myself for what I know is coming. I make my resolve. This might be the thing that kills me and if it is, I am going to my grave knowing that I didn’t endanger my friends any more than I already have, and if it doesn’t kill me then obviously I can endure it. Either way, I will not let them know my real name or my real purpose here. The electricity that runs through me feels like punches to the chest, like it is being ripped open from the inside, like my arms are being torn off, like my skull is being smashed from the inside. I scream and babble, tears run down my cheeks, I grind my teeth so hard that one of the molars shatters. The shocks come again and again and again. 

In a moment between shocks, my legs are crumpled beneath me, blood running down my chin, my head is thrown back, gasping for air, the only things keeping me upright are the chains around my wrists. I don’t think I even have the strength to cry anymore, it all seems to have stopped mattering. I just want it to end without me having given up my identity. In that moment I crave morphine more than I have in years, not so much for the high as for the numbness, the quiet, the pain relief. That’s when I know I have nothing left. I just want to die.

Then I remember where it is that I have seen Zap in the past.

“Goran.” I gasp out, letting my head loll towards him, barely able to whisper, waiting for the man to come over from where he has been leaning against the wall, watching Zap work. 

Once he is close enough to hear I go on. 

“This man, he is a double agent, he works for the Russians as well. You can’t trust him. He is selling your secrets back to them.” 

Why hadn’t I known from the first moment I had seen him. I should have recognised him sooner. Recognised him from a file I had seen in Mycroft’s office over two years ago. MI6 have been tracking him for a very long time, he has known connections to arms dealers. I can’t remember his alias’, but I am confident it is him. I know it is desperately close to giving up my identity by telling them this. It is a massive risk. They might not even believe me. I must try something, I can’t take any more. 

There is a flurry of activity as Zap rushes for the exit, Goran in pursuit. Nether close the door. I tip my head forward; blood and saliva run from my mouth, I spit out some chips from my broken tooth, hacking a few wet coughs. I try to get my feet under me, fail. Give up. 

The boy is outside the door, I can hardly think of him as a guard, he is too young. He comes in and helps me to my feet, before turning immediately and leaving. Vlad’s small act of kindness coupled with the relief of Zap’s exit very nearly undoes me.


	11. Chapter 11

The next few days are a blur of torture and distress, the shocks having again left me with decreased functioning. I know my chances of getting out of here are minuscule. I have stopped feeling the cold, in fact I feel quite warm, I think now that a fever has set in. I am losing hope. 

I have been collecting inductions about everyone I see; Rasha, Goran, Vlad, the meek woman who cleans up the blood and the piss and the shit, the ugly man with fetid breath who visits late at night. I collect facts about them all in a formless hope that I might be able to distract one of them at the right moment. The right moment never comes. 

I can’t stand anymore; my legs just refuse to cooperate. I know that I am nearing physiological exhaustion. They don’t let up, in fact they get more brutal, in their desperation for answers. Rasha beat me unconscious earlier, never letting up on the questions. I came to, unable to feel my left hand, ears ringing, blissfully alone. 

The next time someone enters it is expected. I hear the boots of many men in the hallway. This is unusual. The group enter the room, I don’t bother to look up, but I do listen. One of the men is clearly in charge, he is new here, higher rank than anyone who has been around so far. He tells them that he is going to oversee the interrogations of their prisoner because they are too incompetent to get the answers themselves. He dismisses all the men except for Rasha. Vlad comes in carrying a small table down the steps, placing it near the chair that is next to the light. The new man circles, ducking under the chains, to examine the items on the table under the window, items left there to intimidate and scare and for easy access. While I have not seen the pile of tools first hand, I know what many of them are, having felt the impact of them. My imagination supplies the rest. His boots came into my line of vision. I can’t help but think that something is off about the boots. I can’t think what exactly, I just know something isn’t normal. The man picks something up off the table and hands it to Rasha. It is a pair of pliers.

“These should do.” He says before sitting down on the chair next to the light and propping his feet up on the little table the boy had brought in. 

“Start at his feet, work your way up.” The new man says as he noisily opens a packet of crisps. Rasha kneels down before me, grips my ankle and sets to work twisting and pulling at my skin. 

I grunt in pain as chunks of flesh are ripped from my feet and ankles. The boots are still bothering me. 

“Who do you work for? We know it wasn’t the Australians.” Rasha snarls. He is trying to impress the new comer by being particularly cruel. I gasp as I try to jerk way. His grasp around my ankle holds fast.

“Where are you from?”

I manage to stay mostly silent for about ten minutes. It feels like a life time.

“Who is your boss?”

Grunts and gasps are all that I allow myself. Blood flows freely.

“Why did you come here?” Rasha continues relentlessly with questions that have almost become a chant. 

The new man interrupts, “Is he always this stubborn?” The heavily accented voice sounds like Mycroft’s, I must be losing my mind completely. 

“Except for when we use the electricity, he usually talks more then but he passes out quickly too.” He grasps another fold of skin in the jaws of the pliers. 

The boots are much too new. All the others, their boots wear out quickly, they get wet often in the snow and the mud, they look tatty, even those with a high rank have tatty boots. 

I let out a pained growl as he rips flesh from the side of my calf. 

“He sounds like a pirate.” The new man laughs. I know then that it is my brother. My heart sinks, it is one thing to be in this position, it was quite another to have it witnessed by someone close to you. He will have read it all on me the moment he came through the door. Easily taken in the sight and smell of me in an instant. Reading it all as easily as if it is written in a children’s book. Every moment of my pain and weakness told in bold letters. Every punch. Every sickening touch. He surely knows about it all. Shame burns through me. He sits and watches making no effort to alleviate my suffering.

“He makes all kinds of nice noises.” Rasha jokes, ripping some flesh from the back of my knee. “Tell us who you work for and this will stop, I’ll even bring you another nice glass of ‘water’. 

“I already told you who I work for.” I gasp out. I am getting desperate for relief, sweat drips from my long hair into my eyes. 

“It’s not true.” He pushed the leg of my trousers further up and grabs a fold of skin between the jaws of the pliers. I am so thin now that the leg of my trousers can be pushed a long way up my thigh. Plus, the cuff is ripped. 

“Who do you work for?” Rasha asks ripping a piece of flesh off with each word he speaks. I can feel my resolve slipping, there has been too much pain. I am losing blood and my already compromised system can’t take much more. I don’t want to break down in front of Mycroft, but it is getting to be too much. I feel the panic starting to rise again, this has been happening more and more often.

“Who?”

I let out a sobbing gasp, that quickly becomes a wet cough. “No one.” I gasp.

“I don’t believe you.” Rasha scoffs, standing at full height to look down on me. The leg of my trousers falling back into place. “No one could get in here alone, it is not possible.” He slaps my face for good measure. Using the hand that holds the pliers. The cut on the inside of my cheek opening up again. Then he punches me in the side, targeting the broken ribs.

“It is, I did it.” I whisper, not capable of much more. My whole body is shaking, blood flows down my leg making the floor slippery. I haven’t been able to hold myself up properly for days. Now I am only capable of making a pathetic scrabble on the slippery surface. “Your security is not ideal.” 

“What did he say?” The new man asks leaning forward in his chair. 

“He said our security is lacking, Sir.” 

“Well is it?” 

“I don’t know, Sir. I’m not on security detail.”

“Go and find out, or you WILL find yourself on security detail.”

“But he is lying.” Rasha hits me again to punctuate his words. To express his anger at being dismissed. I can understand that. Mycroft has that effect on me too.

“Why would he lie about that? It would not make any sense for him to lie about it, not while you are hurting him like that. Now go.”

Rasha leaves in a huff, dropping the pliers to the ground. Mycroft crosses the space towards me, bending to pick up the bloodied instrument as he passes. He leans in close to me, a hand fisting my hair, pulling my head up. He holds the pliers, digging then into the corner of my left eye. For a split second I think that he is going to dig my eye out. He speaks to me softly in English without a hint of an accent. “Tomorrow when Goran is here, I’ll get him out of the room, if we can get out of the building, I have a diversion set up. I might be able to get you out of here.” 

If? I could really use something more concrete than an ‘if’ right now. That level of uncertainty from my brother, always so sure of himself, concerns me. How big a gamble is this?

He throws the pliers onto the table and leaves.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is another rough one. Check the tags. If you have made it this far, I'm am sure, just like Sherlock you can endure it. I don't want to upset anyone so if you are unsure then please skip this one.

The night is long, as all the nights have been. Of all the punishments they have thrown at me: the fists, the chains, the shocks, the tools, they are all favourable to the man with the bad breath. He comes that night, just as he had on all the others. 

He sits and stares at me. I have gone so long without proper sleep that I am losing the ability to fall asleep. I want to, I crave it like a drug, but I can’t drop off. Not here, not like this, not with him watching. I hang limply in the chains and wait, knowing what will come. Filled with dread. 

When he flicks the light off my heart pounds. I wouldn’t have thought that my exhausted body could possibly be that energetic. He comes to me, I can’t see anything in the inky blackness, my eyes unable to adjust, still seeing phantom spotlights, but I hear the whisper of his soft shoes as he steps up behind me. I wait with dread as he undoes my trousers, gravity pulls them to my knees. He pushes my filthy pants down to join them. I don’t bother with trying to struggle, it is a waste of energy. I can hardly breath as he wraps his arms around my waist pulling me into a sickening embrace, rubbing his clothed erection against me. 

“Please no.” I beg breathlessly, I know it is pointless. 

He runs his palm over my chest, smashed ribs scream as he touches me, despite his light strokes. The stench of him this close is revolting, a gag becomes a hacking cough. He doesn’t wait until I have caught my breath. I hear him spit into his palm, then feel his damp fingers against my arse. I should probably be grateful that he bothers with any preparations at all, but the thought of his repulsive breath makes me shudder as he intrudes my body with spit-soaked fingers. He takes he time, he enjoys the anticipation as much as I loathe it. I don’t realise that I am crying until a tear runs over my split lips. I try to blink away its companions, they are of no use to me. 

He steps away for a moment to fumble with his own trousers, then he is hastily against me again, his excitement building along with my dread as his erection prods against me. My body pulls away, even as my mind supplies the uselessness of the actions. I will myself to relax, to take it, as he wraps an arm around my hips to hold me in place. His fetid breath puffs against me ear as he enters me slowly. He always starts of slowly, gently. The acts made all the more repulsive for their false intimacy. I wish it was over. 

I wish to die right there as he thrusts into me. With his increasing speed comes increasing pain. The pressure causes me to harden slightly. I cannot think of a strong enough word to describe my repulsion. The volume of his gasps increases with the slapping of skin. I am vaguely aware that I am coughing again, my mind too consumed by my rape to give attention to other details. He grasps my hips, having to support me as much as to restrain me. 

Eventually, after what seems like an eternity of darkness, pain, and humiliation he ejaculates with a gasp and a sigh, stilling within me as he nuzzles the back of my neck with his lips. I want to vomit as he withdraws, sperm and spit spill down my thighs only to be wiped back up again as he replaces my clothing. 

He steps around in front of me and pulls me up to height, pressing his lips against mine, a ragged sob escapes me as he deliberately brushes my sensitive penis with is free hand. Then he drops me, chuckling as he returns to his seat and switches the light back on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and supporting my little story. I appreciate you.


	13. Chapter 13

When Goran returns, my breath hitches. I almost feel something like hope. I pack it away instantly. Hope is too much of a risk. Better to never have it than to have it snatched away. I still believe I will die here. The difference is that now I don’t care. Not caring feels better. It gives me a freedom that I had not yet felt here. I am not even cold anymore.

Mycroft stomps in moments later, again going to the table and selecting an implement. I don’t see what he had chosen. I don’t bother to look up, I don’t care. Days ago, I had wondered what broken felt like. This is what it feels like. Having a brother that is prepared to sit back and watch you suffer, to select the way in which you will be harmed, to eat a packet of crisps while you starve. To sleep in a comfortable bed while you are raped. That is what broken feels like.

Goran sets in with the metal pipe, I don’t even listen to the questions. When I don’t answer he raises the pipe and brings it down heavily against my skull, just above my ear. My vision blurs dramatically. My focus slips further. I don’t even bother to try to support myself. Don’t even try to suppress the gasps and grunts of pain. The beating goes on, almost as if I am not there. I am, I can feel the strips of flesh peel from my back as the rusted pipe bites into my skin and muscle. I can feel my breath hitch as my lungs fill with blood. My shoulders strain and my knees buckle, but it is as if it is happening to someone else.

I hear the echo of Mycroft’s words from yesterday,

‘Goran,

out of the room,

a diversion.’

In my peripheral vision I see the pipe being pulled back, aimed, again, for my head. I can’t take another blow to the head. Before I know what it is I am doing, I start to whisper. Spewing induction at my torturer. It had been an easy induction, figuring out he wife is sleeping with the coffin maker. A waft of the same perfume had been present on both men. Jasmine. Goran was stupid to try to intimidate me by getting me measured for a coffin, it has given me the leverage I need to stop him. To get him to leave. To escape.

The man leaves in haste, leaving me alone with my brother.

“So, my friend, now it’s just you and me.” Mycroft says. For a moment I am close to panic, maybe I had misjudged this man, maybe it isn’t my brother after all, I must have hallucinated it. Or maybe he really does want me dead. I guess that would solve a number of his problems.

Then he rises to his feet and approaches, I would reel back away from him, if I was capable. My hair is again grasped roughly, my heart pounding, then as if a spell is broken Mycroft switches to English and informs me that it is time to go home. I allow myself one moment to smile.

The smile is wiped form my face a second later when Mycroft undoes the right cuff. The other chain is heavy enough to unbalance me drastically, I don’t have the strength to fight it. I fall awkwardly, landing on my side, arm outstretched. The weakened muscles and ligaments can no longer hold my shoulder in place, it pops from its socket. I try to curl up into a ball, a soundless scream on my lips. It’s agony. Mycroft has my other hand free in an instant.

“Come on little brother,” he says gently, “we need to be out of here, you can cry about it later.”

I moan as Mycroft pulls me to my feet. He supports me by gripping me around my waist. I grip the back of his jacket with my good hand and we stumble towards the door.

“The other way,” I demand, my voice quiet but I make it clear that it’s not negotiable, “it is closer to an exit.” Mostly I just don’t want to see Vlad die.

“How could you possibly know that? You haven’t left this room since you got here.”

“They have more snow on their shoes if they come from that way.”

Mycroft doesn’t hesitate to turn for the other direction. My hand falls from his coat as we make our way up the steps, it forces Mycroft to take nearly all my weight. I don’t care, I have other things on my mind.

As we round the corner a guard approaches, he does not look happy to see his prisoner leaving the room. He brings his gun up to stop us. Mycroft, his target is unused to combat. He ducks dramatically. I am ready though, adrenaline fuelling my weakened body, I stand upright, unaided as the gun I had liberated from Mycroft’s holster kills the man instantly.

“Let’s move.” I snap. A few paces later we are out in the snow, heavy clouds make the light dull. Everything is grey and white. Mycroft leads the way now, supporting me as I stagger though the grey slush and snow with bare feet. Rounding the edge of the building to where there is a van waiting for us. Engine running, doors open. Mycroft pushes me roughly into the passenger seat, not pausing to consider my shoddy condition. As he bends to twist my feeble legs into the footwell I raise the gun again, firing over Mycroft head to stop the stream of guards exiting the building. I’m sure I hear Mycroft swear under his breath as he swings the passenger door closed and orbits the vehicle to climb into the driver’s seat. I take a moment to enjoy his distress. He is shit at these things. Always has been. I am lurched back into the seat as the van takes off.

“Too bloody early little brother, I told you I would get him out of the room. You have jeopardised this operation.” Mycroft whines as he drives though the compound with haste. He clearly knows the way. I don’t have the strength to argue, but I know that a moment longer in the hands of Groan and I would not have been alive to rescue. Behind us I can hear gunfire and the louder boom of grenades. This is Mycroft’s distraction. Not bad as far as distractions go. I vaguely wonder how many men he has on the ground here. I wonder again if that was his plan.  
“Half a dozen borrowed MI6 recruits, all in need of some real-world training.” Mycroft answers my thoughts. He prattles on about it but I’m not listening. Up ahead I spot something in the haze of the snow.

“Stop.” I demand, to his credit, Mycroft doesn’t hesitate, he slams on the breaks. The van wiggles to a halt. I reach over and hit the horn. Mycroft looks at me as if I have lost my mind, I probably have. Any sane man would have. I don’t care, I’m finishing this. We are outside the bar, this late in the day there is a good chance my target is in there. I have come too far to lose this opportunity. Men rush out of the building, pouring down the steps. Mycroft hits the door lock, before ducking down to protect himself. Thankfully giving me a clear shot. He reaches up and presses the button that winds the window down. I wait, thinking that I must be wrong, my target gone. Damn it! I think, I’ve probably just gotten us killed and for nothing.

Then he appears in the doorway, loading a large machine gun. I take the shot. It’s long range for the weapon I have appropriated from Mycroft. I have never been the best shot, my nerves are frayed, I’m pretty sure my hands shake. The machine gun drops moments before the man. I slump back in my seat as Mycroft speeds toward the gates. I should feel something. I don’t.

The adrenaline dissipates quickly. Soon, all I am aware of is the pain brought about by the rough roads and the poor suspension. I grit my teeth and try my best to support my dislocated shoulder. To breathe oxygen into my wet lungs. Soon I hear the whisper of a stealth bomber overhead, then the dull boom of explosives. The van rattles with the aftershock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the first time we really cross over into 'The Empty Hearse' territory. The lines and themes that have been borrowed from the show are surely recognisable and I take no credit for them. This little drabble is only meant to honour the original not to steal from it. I wish to forward many thanks to the talent that created the brilliant show that is Sherlock. 
> 
> A second amazing rescorse that assisted with my writing is Ariane DeVere's transcripts from the show. They make great reading and save a lot of re-watching. Although I am rather fond of re-watching. Check them out here if you are interested. https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64080.html


	14. Chapter 14

Mycroft drives for over an hour to a prearranged meeting place. There we are met by the MI6 recruits, who had arrived on skidoos and by a medic, who appears to have been waiting for us to arrive. He is a tall muscular black man with a bright Hawaiian shirt. He steps out of a dark coloured van as we pull to a halt.

 

“Why not John?” I ask.

 

“It would not be fair for him to lose you again.”

 

“I’m not dead.”

 

“Yet.” Mycroft sneers. “Looking at you, that outcome is not guaranteed.”

 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I roll my eyes, but I have a feeling he is right.

 

The medic is a brash American that calls himself Doc. He greats Mycroft with a familiarity that tell me that they have worked together before.

 

I can’t suppress a moan as they help me out of the van, I hadn’t been comfortable there, but stepping out hurt like hell. Cuts reopen, bones grind together.

 

The new van is set up to look like a civilian vehicle on the outside but is basically an ambulance. Mycroft tells me that it is equipped with all the necessary coms and weaponry of a small tank. I’m only half listening, the thought of lying down on the stretcher is bliss. In reality, it is nightmarish. I can’t breathe the minute I’m laid down flat. They work quickly to sit me up slightly and wrap me in warm blankets. I realise then that I am shivering. Mycroft sits on a bench beside me while the doctor works. The van starts to move, two of the recruits having taken the front seats. The while the rest piled into another van, leaving the skidoos behind.

 

I struggle to keep my eyes open, fighting to stay awake has become automatic, but the fight for consciousness is being lost. The doctor tries to tap up a good vein in my arm, a difficult manoeuvre in a moving vehicle with a compromised patient. I mentally wish him luck. After a moment he gives up and moves to my ankle, finding a good vein instantly. Smart man, I think as he sets up what looks to be fluids, and most likely a combination of antibiotics, pain relief and sedation. I feel the blissful rush of the medication and finally let myself drift away from the pain. The last thing I feel is Mycroft taking my hand. He must have thought I was out already.

  
\--------------------

  
My awareness comes and goes. I jerk awake many times. Even in my weakened, drugged and confused state I’m aware that this is how I’ve been conditioned. I hear snippets of conversation between the doctor and my brother.

  
\--------------------

 

  
“How bad is it?” Mycroft’s voice breaking the silence.

“He could really use a wash.” Doc sniffs dramatically.

 

“Yes, very funny. His condition please?” Mycroft is clearly in no mood for jokes. Not that he ever really is.

 

“He in a bit of a mess.” Doc says, his voice taking on a sober tone.

 

I drift again only to jerk awake seconds later.

 

“What did they hit him with? A baseball bat?”

 

“No, most recently a metal pipe, before that who knows.”

 

“Brutal. Well, we will need to run a full blood work up to know the whole story, but he definitely has an infection, temp is high, probably his lungs, given the rattling I can hear but it’s hard to tell with the broken ribs and the punctured lung. I really think…” I hear the doctor rattle on as I wander from consciousness again.

  
\--------------------

  
This time I don’t even realise I’ve started to doze until I wake with a shock. I’m hopeful that they haven’t noticed. They are kind enough to pretend they haven’t, as if they can sense my embarrassment. Doc continues to talk to Mycroft; whose only acknowledgement of my waking is a slight squeeze on my hand. When he releases his grip slightly, I slide my hand away. I cannot handle the touch, nor the ill-timed sentiment.

 

\--------------------

 

It is easier to breathe the next time I become aware. Chest tube, I wonder, or just the oxygen mask. They are still talking. I have no idea how much time has passed. It could be minutes or hours.

 

“Imaging will tell us more too, I suspect there are a few fractures and I’d recommend brain scans and further cardiac testing, there are a few odd blips on the readout. Could just be the dehydration and the stress, could be something more. I suspect his kidney function is knackered too.” Good chance of that, I think, can’t even remember the last time I needed to take a piss.

 

“I’ve done what I can for now,” the doctor continues, “but he needs a hospital, the quicker the better, he could crash at any time.”

 

“We stick to the plan. There can be no changes.”

 

“I hope he survives that long”

 

“So, do I”

 

I realise that I have no clue where they are taking me. Right now, I don’t much care.


	15. Chapter 15

I instantly register the feeling in the back of my throat. It is distressing, it shouldn’t be there. I try to swallow around it. but I gag, the tube does not move. Images flash within my brain. My chest hurts. The hot, close feeling of something over my face brings me close to panic. Without a moment for thought I reach up to free my face from the intrusions, only to find that my arm can only move a few inches. I try again more forcefully, the cuff bites into my damaged wrist. Same with my left arm, with the addition of my shoulder protesting at the movement. My eyes shoot open now. I had thought I was out, I was sure of it, but I must not be, not if I’m still tied down. The room is stark and looks identical to a generic hospital room. I am so confused. It only fuels the panic. As does the sound of alarms. This must be some new plan, I think vaguely as I struggle against the bonds. It is so cruel to let me think I got out, only to move onto some kind of medical torture. Or were they just patching me up, so they could start again. The tube in my throat makes me gag and retch again.

The door opens and a bulky man in casual clothing walks in quickly. His bright shirt reminds me of something I can’t quite put my finger on. I try to scramble further away but I’m too weak and the bonds disallow it. Damn this, I think, I didn’t know how all this works. Before it was bad, but I had learned what to expect.

“No,” I groan, “not again.”

“Hey, hey, hey. Take it easy. Take it easy, buddy.” The man speaks calmly in English with an American accent. “You’re ok now, no one here will hurt you. Try not to struggle.”

He stands close but doesn’t try to reach out. I scrunched my eyes shut. I can feel my breath hitch as I try not to fight the thin tube.

“Open your eyes Sherlock, look at me.”

They know my name. This is a disaster. Surely this will cost my friends their lives.

“Sherlock, you are safe now, your brother got you out, you are in a hospital, it’s over, come on, look at me.”

I go still. My brother. He was there. I open my eyes a crack, my arms are still braced against the straps that hold me. My breathing comes heavily.

“That’s it, yeah, that’s it.”

I am beginning to feel stupid for my reaction. To calm myself, I start to notice the doctor. Military man, some sun damage to his dark skin, so obviously travelled a lot to warm places. Clothing says undercover, haircut says discharged over a year ago. Working for Mycroft on an undercover mission that was more secret than it was undercover says that his discharge had probably been dishonourable. The fact that Mycroft trusts him with this particular task tells me that he is an honourable person. Interesting. The inductions help me to calm the panic.

“Why am I tied up?” I mumble through the oxygen mask.

“You haven’t been at your best. You’ve been pretty agitated, probably because you’ve been running a high fever. You kept pulling the tubes out while you were out, three times you pulled the gastric tube out, your throat probably feels terrible. You pulled out the peripheral line and the catheter and almost pulled out the central line. Thankfully we managed to stop you. We had no choice but to restrain you. You were hurting yourself. I am sorry, we tried not to, held off as long as we could. Your brother told us to do it as soon as you got here but we tried to avoid it.”

As the doctor speaks I try to knock the oxygen mask off using my shoulder. He slowly reaches out and removes it from my face. I stare wide eyed at him, flinching involuntarily when he reaches out to move the mask. Once it is gone my heart rate starts to return to a more acceptable level. The alarms quiet as I cease struggling.

“Can you take it out? Please.” I blink heavily and look down at the blankets on my lap, shamed to feel so pathetic. “Please.”

“Take what out?” The doctor asks.

“The gastric tube,” my voice sounds rough to me, “I can’t stand them.”

“Not just yet, I know it’s uncomfortable, but it needs to stay in for a few more days. You are very malnourished, we are concerned about re-feeding syndrome.”

I don’t reply. I had been expecting that answer, but it still came as a blow to my fragile psyche.

“Do you remember me from the transport ambulance?” The doctor asks.

“Only a bit.” I shake my head in frustration. Not a good idea, it only fuels the splitting headache. I do not looking up again. It is all a bit too much right now.

“Ok, I expected that, you were pretty wrecked. Everyone calls me Doc. I have worked for your brother a few times, so he called me in to help with getting you here. You gave us a couple of frights on the way, but we managed. You’re in a fancy private hospital in Montenegro. Mycroft pulled some strings, so I can be your doctor for the length of your stay.” The doctor, rambles on. His voice is soothing, and I feel myself starting to relax back into the mattress. Then a thought startles me.

“Is he here?”

“Your brother? No, he had some things to take care of. He said he will come back to travel home with you, when you are cleared to fly.”

“Tell him not to bother.” I say with some bitterness. As much as I don’t want to see him right now, I had thought he might have stayed. “How long have I been asleep?”

“About 27 hours on and off, the drive here took nearly half a day, we needed to travel slowly. Then you have been asleep mostly since then.”

“I still feel tired,” I confess. Doc just smiles.

“Can I take these restraints off? You won’t pull the tube out again?”

“Please. I won’t.” I realise that that I sound as desperate as I feel. Reel it in, I tell myself. Harden up.

“Not going to run off either? Mycroft says you’re a flight risk.”

“He is insufferable. I doubt I could even stand up.”

The Doc snorts a laugh in response as he carefully removes the Velcro straps, I flinch at the noise.

“Take it easy with your left arm, your shoulder was dislocated and there is a fracture in your wrist. That brace should do the trick, its half healed so it shouldn’t need plaster.”

I nod. My whole arm feels heavy, but I am relieved to notice that I have feeling back in my hand, albeit a bit tingly.

“What about the rest? How much damage?” I need information, information is everything.

Doc sighs, “It is a grocery list of woes. Are you sure you are up to this right now?”

“I need to know.” What I don’t tell him is that I don’t feel up to anything. Breathing even feels like too much effort.

“Ok but tell me if you’d rather rest. You’ll get tired quickly and you need to sleep.” The Doc goes on after I wave a dismissive hand at his statement. “There are tons of lacerations and extensive bruising, all different ages. That will all heal, there might be some scaring, especially on your legs and back. Some minor frost bite on your toes. If your vitals continue to stabilise over the next few hours, we will wiz you up to surgery later. Some of those wounds need proper cleaning. You sustained a number of fractures include a bunch of ribs, again various stages of healing, your wrist, as I mentioned, and fractures to both your Ethmoid and Zygomatic process,” Doc pointed to his temple as he spoke, “that one must have really rung your bell.”

Probably happened when Goran hit me with the pipe, I think.

“Umm, your kidney function was knackered when we brought you in, so we have you on dialysis. I’m hoping that it will pick up on its own now that you are getting proper hydration and your electrolyte and PH balances are getting sorted. Serious infection is hampering our efforts, you’re just this short of septic. Your temperature was through the roof. You have double pneumonia, it’s responding well to antibiotics but is complicated by a puncture to your right lung. There was some bleeding, so we have a chest tube in. Hardly comfortable but we should be able to take it out in a few days. Like I said earlier, your nutrition has been compromised so the gastric tube is keeping you well fed, you can expect to feel bloated and to…”

“I know how it goes.” I snap. “Don’t bother explaining it.”

A look of confusion and then intrigue past over Doc’s face but he thankfully chooses not to pursue it. “Alright, well ok, there was some concern over your heart function, but early tests have come back promising, looks like you will be ok on that front, but we will run a few more test just to be sure.” The doc pauses, glancing up I see that he suddenly looks uncomfortable.  
Oh shit, I think, I really don’t want to be discussing this.

“There were signs of sexual assault, it will be a bit of a wait for all the blood test to come back. I will organise a counsellor to come by an speak to you.”

“Don’t bother”

“It is no bother at all.”

“They will come back clear. Please don’t discuss this with my brother either.”

“Of course, your medical information is confidential.”

“Yeah right, Mycroft doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

The doc just smiles knowingly. Damn it, he probably already knows everything anyway.

“How long until I can leave?”

“Barring any major complications, you should be back on your feet pretty soon. Lots of damage, not much serious harm. You’re stuck in bed until we have the chest tube out, few days at the most for that, it should also allow time to make sure your kidney function is back to normal and that you are keeping food down. Depending on how it all goes we will see how you are faring once you are back on your feet. I expect it will take a couple of weeks for you to feel up to traveling.”

I will myself not to shout at the doctor. I just want to go home. I just want it to all to be over. The indignity of being in hospital isn’t much better than the room with the chains.

“Any way to speed up that time line?”

“Sorry, healing takes time, and rest.” Doc says pointedly. “Do you want something to help you sleep?”

I shake my head, sure that sleep will claim me almost instantly. I’m exhausted already. I try to adjust my position, to get more comfortable. I am met by pain and weakness. I huff in frustration.

“I’ll get you something for the pain.” Doc says as he reaches for the oxygen mask. I try to turn away, I don’t want anything over my face.

“I take it you’d rather avoid the mask?”

“It is claustrophobic, reminds me of….” I tail off, unable to voice the thought. Just thinking of the restriction around my face reminds me of the dirty wet cloth they threw over my face before they tipped buckets of icy water over me. I shiver at the thought.

“The nasal prongs then, it will be a bit uncomfortable with the gastric tube in there as well.”

I do my best to shrug.

The Doc gets things set up and administers some pain medication as I start drift off to sleep. Mycroft must have failed to mention his imposed morphine ban. The drugs feel nice as they mingle through my system. Sleep comes but fitfully, with many false starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have made it this far I want to thank you for your continued support, all the lovely comments and the kudos. You all make it so much more fun.


	16. Chapter 16

The next few days are a paradox of time perception. Minutes drag slowly by; boredom and pain drag the seconds apart. Then suddenly hours have sailed by without notice. Doc spends much of his time in the room with me. I am his only patient, after all. There are very few highlights by normal standards. Normal standards have, however, ceased to exist. 

The highlights are:  
Tea.   
The first shuffling walk around the nurses’ station and back.   
Being free of the gastric tube.   
Clean clothing.   
Morphine.   
Brushing my teeth.   
The iPod that Doc loaned me.   
Having clean hair.

Yes, best of all, is having my hair washed and detangled by a sweet young nurse who, despite being told by her supervisor to cut my hair short, takes the time to wash it, tease out the tangles, delouse it, and wash it again. She is careful not to get any water on my face. She is patient when I have a panic attack because of the sound of the water pouring through my hair and into the basin. She just waits until I recover my composure and continues. I am incredibly grateful. Her boss less so. I ask to see him after I hear the row in the hall outside my room. I tell the man that if he does not resign by the end of the day, he will be meeting with the chief of staff to explain where the missing drugs have been going. 

“You should hide your track marks better if you don’t want to be noticed.” I say coldly when he denies the accusations. 

The nurses are all very grateful, not surprisingly: he hadn’t been nice to work for. The nurse brushes my hair out once it is dry and ties it in a bun with her spare hair tie. I am glad to have it away from my face.

Then my entire focus shifts to convincing them to allow me to take a shower. As regularly and thoroughly as the nurses sponge me down, I cannot shake the grubby feeling from my skin. It is my habit to be tidy and clean. Whilst I have never been one to shy away from getting my hands dirty, I have also been quick to scrub them clean again. John had been known to joke that I was as clean as a cat. 

Now though I do not feel it. I am certain that the grime from my captivity lingers. In a far corner of my mind I am aware that it is partly psychological. I have consulted on enough cases involving rape to know that victims report feeling dirty and tainted by their experience. I guess that I am not so different to them. 

I understand fully now, why it is that we had never written up these cases. Initially it had been John who had shied away from adding such cases to his blog. Stating that we should respect the privacy of the victims. I hadn’t bothered to argue; the cases and their resolutions were often dull in the extreme. Still, despite their lack of appeal as intellectual problems, neither of us ever had the heart to turn our back on someone brave enough to seek our help. Oftentimes because they weren’t comfortable taking to the police. Thankfully the outcomes were often simple and our liaison with the constabulary had allowed for legal ramifications to be brought against the perpetrators. 

In my case no legal ramifications are required. What I do require is a long hot shower. The compromise that the nurse force me to agree to was that I must sit on a hard, plastic chair and be attended to by said nurse. I have little remaining dignity by this stage, having been poked and prodded in every which way since I was admitted.

My nurse, Nancy hovers close by as I shuffle towards the bathroom. I am as weak as a kitten and subsequently out of breath by the time Nancy holds the door open for me. I lean against the stark white sink. I deliberately don’t look up. Not ready to see my reflection.

‘Could you give me a minute?’ I ask.

‘Sorry, I’m not allowed to leave you alone.’ She looks apologetic.

I gesture toward the mirror.

‘I don’t know how bad I look.’ I explain. I laugh drily at myself. How pathetic. 

She can see I need a moment to process. 

‘I'll be just outside the door. I have to leave it open, but I’ll turn my back until you tell me you're ready.’ 

She stands by the door, looking away. Relaxed and waiting. I am thankful for her. Some of the other nurses aren’t so patient.

I steel myself for the sight that will greet me in the mirror. Needs must, I think, knowing that I can’t avoid it forever.

I'm not surprised by what I see. It’s just me staring back. A pale, gaunt, tired looking version. I have dark circles under my eyes. A yellowing bruise falls across my temple. My hair is an overgrown tangle. My left shoulder slightly slumped, in fact my whole posture has suffered but the thing that really strikes me is that I don’t look like I have been fundamentally changed by my experience. I’m not sure whether to be elated, relieved or disappointed. 

‘You ok?’ Nancy calls out.

I am startled out of my thoughts but compose myself enough to hum an affirmative noise.

‘Let’s get you in the shower then.’ She says as she approaches.

Unable to reach the ties on the back of the hospital gown, she helps me out of it before turning the shower on to warm up the water.

I turn to catch a glimpse of my back. Dressings still cover a few of the deepest wounds but others have healed well. The vision does not do justice to the pain I had felt. Still feel. I had expected the expanse of my back to be crisscrossed with scars but mostly it looks reasonably unharmed. I am beginning to question my perception. Had the torture been as bad as I had thought? Is my pain threshold somewhat lower than I had considered? 

I shake my head to clear the pointless thoughts and step under the spray of the shower. The water feels both blissful and terrifying. Between the running water and my nudity, the panic is difficult to keep at bay. Nancy chatters about the qualities of her pet cat Bubbles. Bubbles likes jazz music, cardboard boxes and drinking from the tap. Bubbles does not like the kid that lives next door, action movies or cat food with chicken in it. Bubbles has a talent for catching flies. Nancy’s nonsense dialogue helps to keep me in the moment. Soon I am clean and dried and wearing real, if borrowed clothing. It feels wonderful. 

Not everything is rosy though. Falling asleep is still difficult. Every time I start to drift off I jerk awake again and every time I startle back to reality I jolt my ribs or my shoulder. Every time it hurts and every time it hurts the response is reinforced. My brain has learned that falling asleep hurts. No amount of telling myself that it is stupid helps. I can’t control it. When it is light I am reminded of the bright light in the room with the chains. When it is dark I am reminded of the Nightman. There is no escape.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am posting this chapter to celebrate ticking over 1000 hits. I am thrilled and humbled by the support of each and every one of you. When I first posted a story on here just a few months ago I thought it would be amusing if a couple of people read the words I had jumbled together. I am blown away with the response. If you like something you read here, or on another site or in real life then tell the author. I had no idea what it would mean until now. Each comment, no matter how small and each kudos is a huge thrill to behold. Thanks you, with out you I am just a crazy fangirl who is wasting time tapping away on the computer. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this one, it is one of my favourites.

I am still sleep deprived when Mycroft arrives well ahead of schedule. Doc is clearly pissed off, threatening not to clear me to fly. Stating that my lungs can’t take it. Mycroft, of course, has organised a private jet and clearance to fly at low altitude. The Doc knows he is beaten and agrees to travel with us, to keep an eye on my condition and because it will be easier to catch a flight back to America from Heathrow. 

It is late by the time we arrive at the airport. It was an uncomfortable drive from the hospital and I am dreading being locked in a small metal tube with my brother. My only hope is that I might sleep. And maybe pain meds. My only luggage, after two years away, is a plastic bag filled with medication. The Doc holds onto them for me as I get out of the cab. I cannot wait to get my hand on it and see what is in there, like a kid with a showbag, looking forward to sampling the best lollies. 

I climb gingerly up the stairs to the plane. Walking is still uncomfortable, but not so bad now that I have regained some strength and most of the wounds are knitting together. Steps are another matter. I stubbornly wave off the Doc’s offers of assistance. I need to feel like I can do things for myself again. Scans on my back have shown up some muscle tearing, I feel every bit of it as I lower myself into one of the plush leather armchairs. Mycroft sits in the one next to me. A whole plane to choose from and he sits in the seat next to me. I stare determinedly out of the window, drawing my knees up to my chest, and leaning my forehead against the glass. It is cool and comforting, against my forehead, I still feel a bit feverish. 

I have absolutely no interest in having a deep and meaningful conversation with Mycroft right now. It takes a couple of tries but thankfully I doze off before the plane’s wheels are even up. 

I wake up coughing and gasping for air. Even the low altitude playing havoc with my breathing. My chest feels heavy with infection. The antibiotics have been working wonders, but they still need some time. Mycroft wordlessly hands me a bottle of water. He waits until the coughing fit has subsided before speaking.

“Are you ok?”

I only grunt as an answer and raise an eyebrow at the window, knowing he will see my reflection in the darkened glass, just as I see his. Mycroft just holds the expectant look that says he requires a verbal answer and is prepared to wait for one. I notice the first glow on the edge of the horizon. Not that long ago I really thought I would never see a sunrise again.

“Yeah, just great.” I answer briskly, the first communication we have had since leaving the hospital. “You?”

“I am worried about you, brother mine.”

“Cheers, but it’s a bit late for that now isn’t it.” I make sure my tone implies no question. I continue to stare out the window. I am furious with him.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Sherlock? I got there as soon as I found out where you were.” 

“How did you find me?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. 

“I was alerted to one of our most wanted, Ivan Maggarn, having turned up in the back-street, of a small Serbian farming community, quiet dead. The death of a known double agent was a red flag for your whereabouts, your exact location took a little longer to track down.” 

I feel like my blood pressure has dropped suddenly. That was his name, the man I called Zap. Mycroft drones on about how he had narrowed down the location and come for me. Have stopped listening. 

“Sherlock, hey. Hey!” Mycroft tries to get my attention by resting his hand on my damaged shoulder when it became apparent that I wasn’t listening. I flinch away. Fright more than pain driving me. I need to get this under control. I fake a wince hoping that Mycroft will put it down to a pain reaction. My reactiveness only fuels my anger more.

“Why the pliers?” I ask my voice in a harsh whisper, hoping to put Mycroft on the back foot. “How could you do that?”

Mycroft sighs looking put out by the question. I know his tells, he is trying to cover his shock. He did not think I would ask. 

“I had to be believable, we would both be dead of they had found out who I was.”

“Covering your fat arse again!”

“There weren’t any good options on the table, Sherlock. The pliers were a mercy, would you have rather I picked the bone saw, or the knife, or maybe the hammer. The pliers were no threat to your life.” Mycroft sneers. 

“I nearly bled to death. He missed my femoral artery by less than a centimetre.” I’m raising my voice now. It causes me to start coughing again, wet and heavy. I can’t catch my breath. Doc interrupts by handing me a sick bag, he knows as well as I do were this is heading. My stomach won’t handle the disruption well. I wonder how much the doctor has overheard. Probably all of it. Mycroft slinks off while I vomit up my dinner. I have been struggling to keep food down, it still does not take much to upset the balance. 

My breathing has returned to normal by the time Mycroft returns with a single glass of scotch. I have no doubt that it is not for me. 

“No, thank you.” I smirk at him and he returns his trademark look, dripping with condescension. He pointedly sips at his drink. After a long pause, Mycroft approaches conversation from a different angle.

“You need to come into the office for a debrief, I have organised a car to take us from the airport.” 

I roll my eyes. The coughing fit has not quelled my anger, but it has drained my energy. I have no intention of playing his games. 

“No, thank you. I have every intention of going straight home.” 

“Arrh, yes home, you are lucky that Mrs Hudson is the sentimental type, she has maintained your rooms in your absence. Not that there are many people who would want to live in an apartment with that colour scheme.” Mycroft says airily. “You might like to come with me and get cleaned up a little first though.” 

He looks me up and down. I’m wearing baggy tracksuit bottoms and a bulky jacket with what looks like a fur collar. My shrunken frame looks even more diminished in the over-sized borrowed clothing. He does have a point. “Plus, you might like to pick up your coat.”

“You have it? Why?” I demand. I wonder why it isn’t at home with my other things. Despite what Mycroft said, I knew all along that our apartment was retained. Before I had left it was agreed that Mycroft would access my funds to continue to pay my share of the rent. It’s not as if I could access the accounts myself, being technically dead and all. I did not want any more hardships for John, or for Mrs Hudson for that matter. 

“I couldn’t leave it just lying around, could I? John requested that you be buried in it. I thought it best to keep it well out of sight.” Mycroft explains. This news stuns me. I am mentally reeling at the thought of John helping to plan my funeral. Of course, I knew that there had been a funeral, I had watched from afar even. Always best to know who cared enough to bother attending, but it had seemed such an abstract concept until this moment. The thought of John planning the little details floors me.

“So, you’ll come in.” It wasn’t a question. Mycroft know he has me, he smiles smugly. It is a low move, holding my coat ransom.

The plane begins its decent as the sun peaks up above the horizon, glowing an ominous red. I am running out of time but, I take a moment to consider my options, knowing that I have no choice but to go in, Mycroft will just drag me in eventually, well, his hired goons will. It will go down better for everyone if I just go of my own volition. 

“Sure, but I’ll meet you there. I’ve been pent up in here with you for too long. I need my space.” What I really need is a hit. I’d have to be careful with all the medications, but I need something to get me through the debriefing.

Mycroft nods once. We both remain silent as the plane comes into land. I watch the sun disappear back below the edge of the world as we descend. Only to have it peak back up again as we taxi in. The novelty of a double sunrise amuses me.


	18. Chapter 18

Mycroft’s car picks him up on the tarmac. A cab also pulls up, this will be my ride. Mycroft hands me a credit card, reminding me that my accounts don’t exist anymore or are frozen. Apparently the ‘not dead’ paperwork still needs some work. No doubt that would form part of the debrief. I thank Doc for his efforts, it must have been no picnic looking after me. Mycroft hands him an envelope and the three of us leave in opposite directions. 

I know that Mycroft has me under surveillance. I just don’t care. It will be easy enough to slip away now that I am back in London. I change cabs three times to be sure, then step into a telephone store and buy a new phone. That will hardly be a surprise when it shows up on the statement. 

I take a moment to drop the wrist brace into a bin before stopping at a familiar jewellery store to buy a new wristwatch. My original having been taken and is now most likely charred and broken upon the wrist of a dead soldier. 

I have been here before, their security is poor and the owner, well let’s just say he has very little respect for women. I pocket a second identical watch while the first is being packaged. I have no doubt the card is traced, and I need some cash. The watch is easily hocked to one of my surprised homeless network members. Thankfully yesterday was the day his support payments came in. I give him the boxed one with the receipt, so he will have no trouble taking it to a pawn shop. Cash in hand, the first call I make is to my dealer. Thankfully the number still works. The address has changed though, not that it matters, I would have tracked him down anyway. Another cab ride later, a brief stop, a bit lighter for cash, I head to Mycroft’s office. 

The debrief is brief. Thankfully. The cocaine having taken the edge off the tedium. It allows me to concentrate well enough to make sense of the proceedings. Two agents sit across the table and ask inane questions about what I had done, learned and dismantled while I was away. I give them little, except sarcasm and cynicism. In the end they give up, it wasn’t an official assignment anyway and the results were pleasing, mostly. For them the best part of it all is that I don’t want any credit, nor do I expect any renumeration. I am quite happy to put the whole thing behind me, so they can just carry on as if none of it even happened. I intend on doing the same. Throughout, Mycroft sits in the corner of the room and tries his best to keep quiet, I can tell that it takes him an enormous effort. I enjoy it immensely. 

I breeze out the door the moment the debriefing is pronounced complete, or as I prefer to think of it ‘defunct.’ Mycroft must hurry to keep up as I lead the way to his office. When I enter the room, I am surprised to see what looks like an old-fashioned barber’s chair. Mycroft notices my momentary pause.

“Ideal solution to the necessary dental work, plus I should think a shave and a haircut. You couldn’t possibly subject London to that hair style.”

“Hipster is in. I’m considering keeping the bun.” I say knowing it would rile my brother to suggest that I am keeping the long hair. Mycroft just sighs and returns to his paperwork. The files generated by my activities obviously need to be reconciled with the information from the debrief. Mycroft tosses me a newspaper, probably in hope that it will keep me entertained while he works. 

The dentist comes in first to work on the tooth I shattered while being subjected to Zap’s, no, Ivan’s treatments. He makes considerable headway, but it is going to take more than one session to repair. He is quickly followed by the barber, a man I have favoured in the past. 

“Just like before, Sir?” He asks. I nod. I must acknowledge that sometimes Mycroft does get things right, I’d be bugger if I was going to tell him that though, he would just get a fat head.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This on is all but a blatant rip off from The Empty Hearse. You all know the episode so well that you will be able to tell the bits I have borrowed from the show but if you're not sure if it is my line or theirs, the easy way to tell is - if it sounds good I probably didn't create it. If you are bored with rehashing the episode you could skip this one. 
> 
> The transcripts available here - https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64080.html are incredible and made it possible to get this chapter written.

Eventually Mycroft brakes the silence with a chuckle. 

“Quite the busy little bee.” He almost sounds impressed.

“Moriarty’s network took me two years to dismantle.” Despite the recent drama I know I should be proud of the results. The method though, had not always been...ideal.

“And you’re confident you have?”

“The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle.”

“Yes. You got yourself in deep there,” he says glancing down, “with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme.”

“Colossal.” Mycroft couldn’t even begin to know the scope or the real motivation for killing Mr Maupertuis.

“Anyway, you’re safe now.” Mycroft snaps the file shut to punctuate his words. I just hum a non-committed reply. I don’t feel particularly safe.

“A small ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss.” Mycroft wines

“What for?” It was the flight all over again. My anger flares. 

“For wading in. In case you’d forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu.”

I fight the pain to sit up so that I can stare him down. How dare he?

“Wading in? You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp.”

Mycroft looks rather indignant. “I got you out.” 

“No! I got me out. Why didn’t you intervene sooner?”

“Well, I couldn’t risk giving myself away, could I? It would have ruined everything.”

Everything was already ruined, I thought, but that was not the most cutting thing I could say. 

“You were enjoying it.” There, that was a better way to lash out, and I need to lash out at something. If I try hard enough I can almost make myself believe it is true.

“Nonsense.”

“Definitely enjoying it.”

This time it is Mycroft that loses his composure. “Listen: do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going ‘under cover,’ smuggling my way into their ranks like that? The noise; the people.”

He is insufferable, I think as I lean back gingerly. I can’t look at him any longer. The drugs are wearing off far too quickly. I will the barber to hurry up.

\--------------------

 

I take a glorious shower and change into a crisp new suit that Mycroft’s assistant has organised to his specifications and my dimensions. Mycroft then reminds me, in the most tedious way possible, that my rescue has a currency, specifically stopping an imminent terrorist threat. Dull.

“What do you think of this shirt?” I interrupt, just to be obtuse. Getting a rise out of my brother was always worth it. I enjoy it for a moment, before continuing. “I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft. Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in, feel every quiver of its beating heart.” Let me work with John again, that is my real thought. The assistant mumbles something about the intel. I don’t catch her words. She is just a distraction.

“And what about John Watson? Have you seen him?” I ask as I slip the jacket on, it fit well and thankfully it is quite comfortable despite the dressings and the strapping on my shoulder.

“Oh, yes, we meet up every Friday for fish and chips.” Mycroft’s voice dripping with sarcasm, “I’ve kept a weather eye on him, of course.”

I open a file that appears in my hand. There are two black and white surveillance photos of John. He looks dreadful. 

“You haven’t been in touch at all, to prepare him?” Mycroft sounds… concerned. That’s odd.

“No. Well, we’ll have to get rid of that.” I am distracted by the moustache. 

“We?”

“He looks ancient. I can’t be seen to be wandering around with an old man.” I am deliberately blaming the facial hair and ignoring the fact that John has noticeably aged since I had seen him last. I don’t want to think about it, if he has aged, then so have I. There were times, while I was gone, that it felt like I had been gone for an age, others when I was so busy it felt like it was yesterday that I had left. Right now, it feels like an eternity.

“I think I’ll surprise John. He’ll be delighted.”

“You think so?” Mycroft asks with a cynical frown that I pay no attention to.

I hum, starting to feel excited about being back for the first time. “I’ll pop into Baker Street. Who knows, jump out of a cake.” The anticipation of seeing my old friend again making me giddy. Or perhaps that is a response to the stimulants. 

Mycroft’s frown deepens as he tells me that John had moved out. I am surprised to hear that. I had assumed John would stay there, hell, I had even made sure that the rent was paid up. Mycroft distracts my thoughts.

“It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life.”  
“What life? I’ve been away. Where’s he going to be tonight?”

“How would I know?”

“You always know.” 

“He has a dinner reservation on Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion ... though I prefer the 2001.”

“I think maybe I’ll just drop by.”

“You know, it is just possible that you won’t be welcome.”

“No, it isn’t. Now, where is it?” This banter nearly feels natural again.

“Where’s what?”

“You know what.”

She appears then holding my coat. I smile as I slide my arms into the sleeves. The collar standing up just the way it should. It feels like home. Like a familiar embrace. 

“Welcome back, Mr Holmes.”

I thank her, thinking that I was wrong about my earlier assessment, maybe she is something more than a distraction, useful even. I leave shooting one final barb at my brother and leave. 

\--------------------

Now I have a solid plan for the evening, but first I need to top up. Thankfully I know a spot that has poor security, by my standards. There I can get a good look at London from one of my preferred balconies and have some privacy.

\--------------------

The evening quickly turns into an eventful one. The reunion with John is tense, but I get a chance to meet the women with whom he was ‘getting on with his life’ as Mycroft so eloquently put it. She is nice and surprisingly interesting for one of John’s girlfriends. There is something she isn’t telling him though. Not sure what it is yet.

\--------------------

Thankfully seeing Molly is much less active and less complicated than seeing John. She looks relieved to see me. Odd. 

Next, I go to New Scotland Yard to see Lestrade. For a moment I think that he is going to belt me, just as John had. The resulting hug is nearly as painful. I am sure that being thrown around by John had opened up the wounds on my back, sure that my shirt is sticking to my back despite the heavy dressings. I think I make a good effort to keep it from them, but only because I’m as high as a paper kite.


	20. Chapter 20

I feel completely drained as I head in the front door of my Baker Street home. I am thankful that Lestrade has an early morning meeting and had wanted to head home rather than ‘catch up.’ 

Mrs Hudson is, to put it mildly, quite expressive about how much surprise, joy and fright she feels at seeing me alive. She screams, drops the frying pan she had been holding as a weapon and hugs me into a tearful embrace. This time I couldn’t hold in the gasp of pain. 

“O sorry dear, I know you’re not fond of hugs, but humour an old lady, would you.” She says retreating a bit but still clutching my coat. “Sit down, I’ll make us a cup of tea, maybe a bit of brandy to calm the nerves.” 

She moves away to put the kettle on. I think that she senses that I feel awkward under her gaze, she is good at those kinds of things. 

“Have you seen John yet? I bet he was thrilled to see you.”

“Not so much.”

“What do you mean?”

“He punched me in the mouth.”

“Oh, don’t worry dear, it’s a bit of a shock to see you, is all.”

“More than once.”

“He’ll come around.”

“So, everyone keeps saying.”

“He went through a lot, you know, when you were gone. Blamed himself.” 

Molly and Lestrade had said the same thing.

“Why would he do that?” I ask, I’m still confused at what everyone means by that. 

“That’s what people do when someone they love takes their own life, he was a mess in the beginning.” She lets me sit and stew on that while she prepares the tea and the brandy. It hits home, I start to realise my mistakes. I hadn’t thought about how John would consider it when I jumped from the roof. I knew he would be upset that I was gone but I had never really considered the impact of Lazarus as compared to options Bethesda or Sea of Galilee. Either way I was to fake my death. Dead is dead, what did it matter how? But apparently it did matter. I’m starting to realise that now. 

“What have you been up to all this time? You’ve been gone an age.” She asks, chuckling as she places our drinks on the table and sits across from me. She seems to delight in having me back here. I have missed her too, but I can’t match her elation. I sit brooding at the up-serge of emotions that has occurred since I walked in the door. I am feeling quite overwhelmed. 

“Taking apart the criminal network that Moriarty built. The game we played, it got out of hand. He threatened the lives of my friends; you, John, Lestrade. I had to make sure that his network was completely dismantled.” I look down as I speak, ashamed of the silly games I have played and how they have threatened the lives of my friends. 

“Thank you, Sherlock.” I look up and I am surprised to see her smile at me. “You are always rescuing me. I’m very grateful.”

I don’t know what to say, being thanked is unfamiliar territory. I take a sip of the brandy as a diversion for replying. The cocaine has long since worn off and I am well overdue for something for the unremitting pain, I hope the brandy will help a bit. It doesn’t. It burns my raw throat and makes me cough; this darn chest infection and the broken ribs make it impossible to cough properly, but now that I have started I can’t control it. Mrs Hudson is on her feet instantly, concern on her face as she hovers over me, waiting for me to get command of myself. I flinch away when she lays a hand on my back, it is a total repeat of the plane ride. I try to stand too quickly. My head spinning, I crumple to the floor, clutching at my ribs. I feel suddenly cold and clammy and my hands are shaking. Get it together Holmes, I tell myself. I am vaguely aware that Mrs Hudson crouches down beside me but this time does not reach out to touch me. She just waits in solidarity while I sit catching my breath.

It isn’t until I have risen gingerly onto the edge of the chair, still with an arm wrapped protectively around my side and have taken a careful sip of tea, that she speaks again. 

“You’re unwell and you’re hurt. What happened out there?” She asked hovering close to my side.

“Oh, just this and that.” I say airily. Hoping to dismiss her question. If I go there, here and now, with her, I’ll crumble.

“Don’t this and that me young man, we have been though far too much together. Now out with it, what happened?” 

She is good at this. She knows how to make me feel loved and safe and chastised all at once.

“I stuffed up, got caught.” I mumble out and when she lets my words hang in the air, I fill the space. “they interrogated me.”

“And they hurt you.” 

“Yes.” I look her in the eye, trying to gauge her reaction and as proof to myself that I am not letting my emotions get the better of me. They hit me hard though and I have to fight to hold them back. 

“What else?”

I can’t meet her eye now. She knows.

“Everything.” My delicate composure slips away, my face crumples as I try to keep in the tears and the sobs.

“My poor boy.” She wraps me in a gentle hug, I lean into it, even snaking a hand around her back to return the embrace. I don’t want her to leave me. I cry silently into her apron as she holds me. I cry for the shame, the pain, the frustration. I cry for Clair, for my inability to save her. I cry for the horrible things that humanity is capable of in the name of money, advantage, greed, gratification, perversion, status, protection. I cry for the horrible things that I now know that I am capable of. I cry for the things I’ve lost along the way: time, John’s trust and companionship, myself. 

Mrs Hudson shows no indication of moving away, she is just there for me, with me. We stay like that for a long time. Until my shoulders stop hitching and my eyes are dry again. When I pull away; trying to stand, to flee, Mrs Hudson just motions me to stay put. 

“Take a moment, catch your breath, drink some tea, dear. I’ll pop upstairs and make your room up for you. You look exhausted.” She strides away, full of purpose. I think she knows that I need a moment alone.

“Mrs Hudson,” I call after her with a shaky voice. She pauses, looking back over her shoulder at me. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome dear, just this once though, I’m not your housekeeper.” We both smile at her overused hallmark phrase. 

I am glad to have a moment alone, it gives me a chance to take a breath, a rattling still audible from my chest. I am woefully overdue for a dose of antibiotics, but in all honesty, I can’t even remember where I had left the medications. On the plane maybe. There is probably something in the bathroom cupboard, or there would have been if John was still living here. He always had handy stuff like that lying around. I drag myself to my feet and head to the stairs. I am glad to be alone once again; my pace is slow and deliberate. I pause at the bottom of the stairs, I dread the ascent. The steps to the aeroplane had been bad enough. Was that really just this morning? It felt like it was weeks ago that I had arrived back on British soil. I take each step slowly, using the handrail for, quite possibly, the first time ever. My back is slick with cold sweat by the time I get the landing. I feel like I might throw up by the time I get to the top. Finally, I push through the door. 

Home. 

It looks just the same, nothing has been moved, even a healthy layer of dust is in its place, just as it should be. The only thing out of place is a plastic bag deposited on the table between the windows, I recognise is at the one containing the medication. Mycroft, the meddling twat, had no doubt had someone drop it off. I pick the bag up on the way to my chair. Mrs Hudson must have lit the fire when she came upstairs, it is now crackling away and giving of a comfortable heat. I sit down gingerly and peruse the contents of the bag. I dry swallow antibiotics, painkillers, anti-inflammatories and something that is supposed to quell nausea and drop the bag to the floor. Moments later our…no, my landlady appears from my room. 

“Oh, Sherlock, how on earth did you make it up all those steps? Come on now, off to bed, it’s all made up, you look thoroughly exhausted.” 

“I just need a moment.” I say, what I don’t mention is that I face sleep with much trepidation these days. 

“Right oh, just don’t sit up too long.” She says as she comes to me and kisses me on the forehead. 

I watch her retreat down the stairs as I take in the view of the rooms I thought I may never see again. The only thing missing is John, I instantly hate the view of his empty chair. Everything else is as it should be, my lab equipment is still in place in the kitchen, the skull and my knife still on the mantelpiece just as I left them, my violin is beside me, my Persian slipper is peeking out from under the couch, the fire crackles in the hearth. I have missed my home. I know that nothing will ever be the same again, no matter how hard I try to fix it, and trust me I will try. But now that I am here in my home, I feel like things might just be ok again. Maybe not for a while, but eventually. I feel at peace for the first time in a very long time.


	21. Epilogue

The next few months are hard. Adjusting to John’s absence is difficult. We work things out as best we can, but I have a feeling that it will never be as it was in the past. Maybe it’s because of Mary, more likely it is because I not the same person I used to be. I’ve always had to act, pretend, mimic to avoid standing out, now it is harder, the act slips more often. I work harder at it. It is exhausting. 

Doc visits regularly. He did not catch a flight home, Mycroft having asked him to stay on to keep up with my treatment. He redresses the wounds, restitching what didn’t hold through my reunions. He changes my pain medication when it stops working. It feels like cheating to use another doctor. 

Some moments are ridiculously difficult. For the first few weeks I struggle with washing my face and my hair. Running water is too much of a reminder but equally so is a wet flannel. I’m embarrassed by my own weakness; some days it takes hours to recover after taking a shower, some days I sit in the tub instead, others, when I’m not coping, I wash at the sink. There is no way around it, so I just take it one day at a time.

As I predicted sleeping is a problem. I am glad that John isn’t living here any longer. It allows me to drop the act at home, allows me to sleep fitfully and to jolt awake in the dark. Always waiting for a rough hand to gently caress my body. Later, when I don’t have the energy or will to fight my fear of the dark, I awake in an over bright room, believing that I am about to be beaten. If John and Mary stay, I spend the night awake, we are usually working a case if they are here anyway. Otherwise I run a lengthy experiment. It is imperative that they don’t find out about what happened. I am too ashamed to speak of it and thankfully John seems disinterested in my time away. I am always equally disappointed and relieved when they head back to their home. 

After weeks of night time panic attacks, it is Mrs Hudson who produces the solution. I didn’t even realise that she was aware of the problem. She purchases, for me, a small fish tank stocked with moon jellyfish, not only are they delightfully relaxing to observe but the tank also came with light that cast a soft blue glow over my room. Now, when I startle myself awake I am instantly reminded of where I am. I only need turn over and watch them propel themselves around the tank to calm myself back to sleep. I still wake regularly. I am a perfect example of fear and pain being perfect for operant conditioning, but at least now, without either the bright light or the complete darkness I am able to get back to sleep more easily. 

Nothing has really changed. I go on solving cases. I throw myself into my work. Lestrade still brings cases around. Clients knock at the door. John blogs about it. 

Also, everything has changed. They are getting married. Mycroft rings me more often. I have more dark moods than ever before. I am constantly looking for distractions to keep me from my next hit. Sometimes they are not enough. 

I often don’t know how to cope because I didn’t expect to come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who made it this far.


End file.
